


Safe Haven

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So, what now? Move to Vermont, open up a charming B&B?" Dean, 8.08</p><p>An AU in which Castiel isn't an angel, but he does have a charming B&B in Vermont and one morning he opens the front door of said charming B&B to find two FBI agents who are on the hunt and maybe in need of a place to stay.</p><p>Dean and Sam are still hunters, the world is still rife with the supernatural, and there's still something about "Agent Fogerty" that Castiel finds intriguing. </p><p>Eventual Destiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Extreme liberties taken with the concept of how one runs a B&B.

It wasn’t until there were badges snapping open and shut before his eyes and he was fumbling to answer a series of very odd questions that Castiel remembered the tragic news he’d read more than a week ago in the local paper during the very early hours of the morning. It pained him to think that he could so easily forget the cruel and ugly death of a young man in the woods that spread out from his back porch like an evergreen carpet over rolling hills, but he hoped he might be forgiven for his lapse in memory when his life now so rarely afforded him free time that wasn’t at the darkest ends of either side of the day. He regretted that he hadn’t spared more than a sorrowful moment of shock and horror when he’d read of a messy murder in their sleepy forest before he’d turned his attention once more to the seemingly endless to-do list that was his new life.  
  
After all, if he’d paid more attention then, he wouldn’t now be opening his front door to the FBI and having absolutely nothing of value to say, staring almost blankly at the two agents who kept asking him questions as though they expected the disheveled owner of the local bed and breakfast to have some sort answer they wanted to hear. He blinked and tried to rush his thoughts into some semblance of order, tried to remember what he’d read at 5:45am before the coffee had kicked in and all he could think was, _“That poor boy. No one deserves to die that way.”_ But on this quiet morning, he’d been expecting a Mr. and Mrs. Beauregard on their 25th anniversary vacation when he’d opened his door and Castiel needed more than a moment to adjust to this unexpected ripple in his daily routine of home, hearth and hospitality. He didn't have much experience with crime and punishment before all the linens had been changed and afternoon tea set to brew.  
  
All the best intentions of wanting to help the FBI and that poor boy who didn’t deserve to die that way and Castiel’s mind was still stuck on how many eggs he needed to buy for tomorrow’s breakfast for seven guests. All the answers he wanted to give because he did care about men who were murdered without cause were stuck in Castiel’s throat because his eyes were caught on the cut of the shorter agent’s jaw because even with all the television Castiel had watched, he was almost positive that federal agents weren’t supposed to look like this.  
  
Such a thought was enough to rouse Castiel from his unfortunate stupor, the flush of embarrassment that he was considering the appeal of freckles when Agent Fogerty was murmuring to Agent Clifford about the depth of the gouges on the victim’s body enough to bring him back to reality and remind him that though he might not have any good answers, Castiel always had good manners. He cleared his throat, tried not to stare too obviously at the dark shadows under Fogerty’s eyes, and aimed for what he hoped was an understanding expression.  
  
“Agents, would you like to come inside? If I can’t be of any help, at the very least I can offer you a cup of coffee.” Castiel said gently, swinging open the door to the foyer of Anna’s Haven, one of _Lonely Planet’s_ top ten picks for romantic getaways and highly rated new destination on bedandbreakfast.com.  
  
“No, we’re--”  
  
Agent Clifford elbowed his partner in the side, cutting him off with a glare and warm, “Thanks, that would be great.”  
  
The taller man smiled gratefully and stepped inside, clapping his hands and rubbing them together to ward off the lingering morning chill. Castiel smiled in return because he liked the way Agent Clifford smiled so easily, the way he looked so young when his lips curved up, a flash of a grin that was so different from Agent Fogerty’s weary, suspicious acquiescence when he shuffled into Castiel’s living room and sighed.  
  
Castiel closed the door behind him and fleetingly imagined the shape of Agent Fogerty’s smile.  
  
“So, Mr. Novak,” Agent Clifford said smoothly, picking up the threads of Castiel’s heretofore useless conversation, only to have Castiel tangle them once more in his haste to say,  
  
“Please, call me Castiel.”  
  
“Fine, Castiel,” Agent Fogerty snapped, sighing like Castiel’s name was a heavy burden on his tongue. Castiel tried not to be offended and focused instead on the tired lines that crept from the corners of Fogerty’s eyes. “We’d like to know if you had any connection to the victim.”  
  
Castiel shook his head slowly and held up empty palms in useless apology, “I’m afraid I know nothing more than what I read in the paper.”  
  
“Even though the attack practically happened in your backyard? Even though from what I can tell everyone knows everyone in this one-horse town?” Fogerty asked roughly, arms crossed over his chest and tone riddled with the kind of skepticism Castiel assumed could only be born from a life spent trying to correct the world’s wrongs.  
  
He only wished he weren’t on the receiving end of such unnecessary doubt. Particularly when Fogerty’s obvious dismissal stung for reasons he couldn’t explain. Castiel straightened his shoulders and met Fogerty’s impatient gaze,  “You must understand that my...backyard...is over 400 acres and I’m almost certain I read that the body was found more than a mile from here. Also I’m new to this one-horse town, so you’ll forgive me if I haven’t had time to socialize while trying to run my business.”  
  
Fogerty blinked and rubbed a hand over his face to erase the frown of surprise as he matched Castiel’s even stare. “Right. No connection to the victim. Check.”  
  
Clifford cleared his throat and shifted in front of Fogerty, “Forgive my partner. We’ve been on the road all night--”  
  
“And the five nights before that chasing after this damned thing and getting nowhere.” Fogerty grumbled, something that looked perilously close to guilt in the grim cut of his frown.  
  
“Have there been other incidents?” Castiel asked, uncertain of whether or not he wanted to hear the answers he could already read in the stiffness of Fogerty’s shoulders and the defeated crumple of Clifford’s expression.  
  
“Incidents. More like other dead kids.” Fogerty sighed.  
  
“A few prior victims.” Clifford murmured, attempting to sound detached and failing so entirely Castiel knew there was nothing to do but pretend the man had succeeded.  
  
“A trail of bodies up the damned Eastern seaboard,” Fogerty gritted out, jabbing a thumb towards the door. “A trail that ends with that poor bastard in those woods.”  
  
Castiel tilted his head, considering. “And you obviously think whoever did this is still here.”  
  
Clifford nodded tiredly, “Its the best lead we’ve got.”  
  
“Its the only damned lead we’ve got,” Fogerty said sharply, his partner wincing.  
  
It was Castiel’s turn to sigh, the lingering sense of his uselessness stirring as he watched the two agents wring their hands, shift anxiously in his living room and look so quietly desperate, “I wish I did know something that could be of help. I would much rather there was something more I could do.”  
  
“Its not your fault. And you should never be sorry that your ass isn’t caught in the crossfire.” Fogerty shook his head, shoulders slumping like they couldn’t hold up their burdens any longer.  Castiel wondered at the desire he felt to place his hands on those bowed shoulders and echo the sentiment. But he doubted such overtures would be welcome and so he stayed quiet, offered only a patient smile when Fogerty muttered, “We’ll find the son of a bitch one way or another.”  
  
“I’m certain that you will,” Castiel encouraged gently. “I pray that you and Agent Clifford safely and quickly find the culprit.”  
  
Fogerty’s eyes widened, “Uh, thanks.”  
  
“You’re welcome.”  Castiel returned Fogerty’s startled gaze, uncertain of why he seemed so surprised that someone would wish him well. Fogerty said nothing, but Castiel didn’t mind the quiet because Castiel liked the shape of his eyes, liked how young Fogerty looked when he attempted to blink away his confusion.  
  
“We should get moving. Sorry to have wasted your time.” Clifford said at length, shifting restlessly and breaking the silence.  
  
Castiel fleetingly regretted the loss of Fogerty’s attention as his gaze snapped to his partner. He shook his head and offered sincerely, “I’m only sorry that I couldn’t do more.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” Forgety tossed out carelessly , turning his back on Castiel and nodding at Clifford.  
  
Castiel watched helplessly as the agents started to shuffle towards the door, already murmuring to one another about where to try next. He heard the name of his neighbor and in a moment of divine inspiration he blurted out, “Caves!”  
  
Clifford crashed into Fogerty’s chest as Fogerty spun around, eyebrows creeping up his forehead and rapid-fire words tumbling out of his mouth, “Caves? What caves?”  
  
Castiel put his hands out to steady Fogerty’s stumble, laughing apologetically. “Sorry, sorry. I  overheard your intention to visit Mrs. Harrison’s property and I remembered she once mentioned there were caves on her land. Apparently dangerous, since she wanted me to warn off my guests from doing any amateur spelunking.”  Fogerty’s eyebrows crept higher. Clifford mouthed _spelunking?_ Castiel flushed and smiled wryly, “At any rate, I thought it might be useful information as they inevitably seem to find clues in dark, dank places on CSI...and I always trust what I see on TV.”  
  
“I hate those fake-cop douchebags,” Fogerty muttered dismissively, but his lips curled at the corners and Castiel counted his fleeting brush with the ghost of Fogerty’s amusement as an unexpected victory. Fogerty clasped his partner’s shoulder and nodded, “But, yeah, that’s definitely helpful. Thanks, Cas.”  
  
“You’re welcome.” Castiel said for the second time in less than five minutes though this time it was his turn for his eyes to go wide and still. He was startled, the intimacy of _Cas_ catching him off guard, and as he stared at Agent Fogerty in a business suit that had seen better days, with his tired green eyes and the faint line of a scar running down his throat, he wondered how someone who seemed so hard and distant could be so suddenly casual and warm.  
  
Fogerty turned away, fingers on the doorknob as he said, “Well, c’mon, Sammy. We’ve got some spelunking to do,” and prepared to walk off and leave Castiel to his routine chores of washing dishes and penciling in the reservation requests that popped up in his cluttered email inbox.  
  
The door clattered behind Clifford’s impossibly long back and for the second time that morning Castiel did the first thing that popped into his head like he was on a mission and it didn’t matter where the crazy order came from because he was sure it would work out alright. He chased the thought of Fogerty’s name, if Clifford was really ‘Sammy’ and he was to be ‘Cas’, it seemed somehow unbelievable not to know who Fogerty really was, so he threw caution away and his front door open to chase two federal agents through his front yard and call out,  
  
“Agents! If you need a place to stay while you’re on the case, you’re more than welcome to stay at Anna’s Haven. I have the space if you have the need.”  
  
“Seriously? That’s really nice of you.” Agent Clifford said with such disbelief that Castiel had to wonder what had happened to these men to make them so untrusting of simple hospitality and kindness.  
  
Castiel nodded and tried to be reassuring, imitating Fogerty’s easy friendliness, “Of course, Sammy. I’ve always got room for the law.”  
  
“Of course you do.” Clifford’s lips puckered as though the sound of his name tasted like lemons and Fogerty expression lit up with the sort of juvenile glee that Castiel last recalled seeing on Anna’s face when she’d come home from college one Christmas to discover that cousin Gabriel had bought him his very own Sex and the City style necklace, only with “Cassie” instead of “Carrie” emblazoned in tacky gold letters.  
  
“Don’t worry about him,” Fogerty said, laughter still rippling over his words as Clifford stalked off with a clipped thanks and a wave, “He only lets me get away with calling him Sammy. To the rest of the world he’s just Sam.” Fogerty’s grin turned sly, “Or maybe Moose, if you feel like really getting under his skin.”  
  
“Considering he has at least four inches on me and carries a firearm, I think I’ll pass on irritating him further,” Castiel murmured dryly as he drifted down the front steps and closer to Fogerty, intrigued by the man’s obvious affection for his partner. Something had made them close, brought them together in such a way that merited nicknames and gentle, worn mockery. Castiel hoped whatever it was bound them to one another wasn’t made entirely of tragedy and trails of bodies that ended in the backwoods of Vermont. He could see Sam leaning against a decidedly non-regulation classic black car and indulged his curiosity, “Have you worked together long?”  
  
“Most days it feels like my whole life,” Fogerty laughed brusquely, shading his eyes as he peered up at Castiel lingering on the bottom step of his porch. The lines around his mouth softened, his smile turning young and sweet for another silent moment before he shrugged and grinned, “But he’s a good kid, so I put up with his shit, even if he insists on embarrassing me by ordering salad at a diner.”  
  
“Let me guess. You’re more of the burger and fries kind of guy.” Castiel said, shuffling down the bottom step and curling his bare toes into grass that was long enough for him to mentally add mowing the lawn to his never ending to-do list.  
  
“Can’t beat a good burger.” Fogerty smirked and shrugged with that loose confidence Castiel had always admired in others. “But its really all about the pie.”  
  
Castiel smiled and leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, “You aren’t wrong.”  
  
“I like you, Cas,” Fogerty said, clasping his shoulder and pointing a finger at his face. “You thought you couldn’t help and here we are with a lead, a place to stay that isn’t the Fleabag Motel, and an agreement on the importance of pie.”  
  
“So you’ll take the rooms then?” Castiel laughed and wanted to put his palm over Fogerty’s to feel the ridges of his knuckles as he tightened his grip. For a too brief second, fingers dug into Castiel’s skin through the warm cotton of his shirt before the touch disappeared and more than half of Fogerty’s attention was gone because Agent Clifford was making impatient and distracting noises.  
  
“If you’re sure you’ve got the space, hell yeah, we’ll take you up on that offer. We’d be crazy not to want to sleep somewhere that doesn’t rent by the hour,” Fogerty stressed while Castiel despaired for the state of FBI salaries and mentally rearranged his weekend bookings to give the agents the quiet, spacious rooms with the view of the pond. Fogerty rubbed his hand through his hair and frowned, “Though I should warn you that Sammy and I don’t really work the typical yuppies on holiday schedule. There’s no telling when the job’s going to be done and I don’t want some stockbroker with a stick up his ass chewing you a new one because we’re coming in and out at all hours and interrupting his beauty sleep.”  
  
“While I appreciate your concern for my being chewed a new one,” Castiel countered, amused and a little touched by Fogerty’s roughened worry, “I think we can avoid any yuppie confrontations if I give you these,” he fumbled through the pocket of his jeans for a ring of mismatched keys, “And you both promise to be as quiet as possible when you return.”  
  
He tossed the keys to Fogerty, who snatched them with impressive speed and muttered, “Too damned trusting.”  
  
“Do I have a reason not to trust?” Castiel asked mildly, pointing out which key opened the gate and which unlocked the front door to Anna’s Haven. Fogerty shook his head and sighed noisily, like there were ten thousand things he wanted to say but not a single word was going to see the light of day. In spite of the weighty silence, Castiel felt no worry, no danger in curling his fingers around Fogerty’s, keys warm and jagged against his palm as he said, “Take the rooms on the second floor and stay as long as you need.”  
  
“Are you sure, man?” The keys disappeared into Fogerty’s pocket and Fogerty stared at the ground beneath Castiel’s bare feet.  
  
Castiel wiggled his toes and smiled, even though Fogerty wouldn’t meet his eyes, “Of course. You and Agent Clifford are doing important work. I just want to do my part, small though it may be.”  
  
“Well, if you say so,” Fogerty murmured quietly before snapping up straight and erasing the pensive sweetness with a rough and ready grin, “Then I guess we’ll see you later, Cas.”  
  
“Yes, you will. Be safe, Agent Fogerty.” Castiel answered gently.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
Castiel blinked.  
  
Fogerty stuck out his hand and rolled his eyes, “If I’m going to stay in your froo-froo inn and probably track mud all over your nice carpets, then you should probably quit with the Agent bullshit and call me Dean.”  
  
“Alright, Dean.” Castiel hoarded the shape of Dean’s name on his tongue and slid his hand against Dean’s, let his palm be grasped warm and close while he shared a smile of his own, the one he gave to every guest who trusted him with their comfort and their enjoyment, welcoming him to Castiel’s home.  “Come back in one piece. You and Sam.”  
  
“Sure thing, Cas.” Dean winked and shoved his hands in his pockets as he turned away, chuckling to himself. “After a hard day’s work, you can tuck us up all nice and snug under one of grandma’s quilts.”  
  
“No quilts! Just quiet, please!” Castiel called after Dean’s retreating back, struggling to keep the laughter from his voice as he watched Dean go, watched him cuff Agent Clifford--Sam--on the back of his head and then slip inside his car.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Dean shouted, leaning his head from the window and gracing Castiel with one last wild and recklessly honest smile, “We’ve got some practice in being as silent as the damned grave.”  
  
The gravel crunched beneath the squeal of the tires and Castiel waited until there was nothing left of Agents Clifford and Fogerty but the lingering dust of their departure. He smiled, climbed the steps of Anna’s Haven and prepared to wait for their return.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast, backstory, and bargaining for a little more time. 
> 
> (This is so long. Oy).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and comments! I am both encouraged and a little intimidated! Ha ha. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy how things progress--I confess to being a slow-build sort of writer, so any...upping of the rating...will likely take a few more chapters. I promise to update quickly. 
> 
> Again, thank you, thank you!

Six am came far too early and it was with great reluctance that Castiel opened gritty, aching eyes to the soft light of dawn. He could feel the nagging ache of sleep deprivation calling him back to bed, but he had a full house of guests who were full of expectations, and so he did what was right and shoved the covers from his body, slid into the jeans he’d discarded far too late the night before, brushed his teeth and attempted to tamp down his wild hair into something that did not resemble a bird’s nest. A cursory look in the mirror before he descended the stairs from his sparse studio to the house proper told the sorry tale of how long he’d spent tossing and turning beneath the sheets. Last night, he had puzzled over why he could not find the calm, exhausted center that normally put him right under until he went still with the realization that even at night, after hours and hours on his feet, he couldn’t quite shake the warmth and worry  he’d carried with him since a black car had torn down his driveway in a blur of tires and dust .    
  
All day, thoughts of Dean’s surprising charm, Sam’s smile, and the danger they could face had stolen more attention than he should have spared from his work and from his guests. He had been so busy dwelling on the promise of Dean’s return that Castiel had done little more than nod with distracted politeness during the afternoon wine and cheese reception when Mr. Beauregard proposed an anniversary toast to his beautiful wife. Restless that evening, Castiel had lingered in the living room, staring at the empty fireplace and contemplating a glass of bourbon, but making do with late night television on mute until his back ached from sitting too stiffly for too long and he’d given up his unacknowledged vigil and gone to bed.   But sleep had been elusive and his thoughts persistent, so at two am, when Anna’s Haven was silent and the forest was noisy with its chirping  nightlife, Castiel had murmured a prayer into the stillness of his room, closed his eyes, and confessed to no one in particular that he was awake for the sole purpose of listening for Dean and Sam’s return.  
  
At 2:15am, he’d heard the soft snick of the front door and the muffled thump-thump of what must have been heavy boots, turned his smile of exhausted relief into the pillow and finally fallen asleep.  
  
Less than four later, Castiel couldn’t regret the sleep he had lost, even though logic dictated that it had been ridiculous of him to think that any of his actions would be of any concern to two seasoned FBI agents, and despite a desperate need for caffeine, his mind was quiet and his thoughts at ease. The kitchen welcomed him like a persistent old friend, waiting for him to turn on the coffee and start the day anew, beginning with the preparations for putting the “breakfast” in bed and breakfast. The comfortable sounds of coffee dripping into a glass carafe and his own socked feet shuffling over hardwood floors lulled Castiel into a slow dance of routine while he stockpiled flour, eggs, milk, butter, fruit, and smokehouse bacon on the counter. The heat of the oven filled the room, banishing the early hour’s bright chill, sunshine breaking through the mist over the pond and the sheer yellow curtains Anna had insisted would really bring a little life to the Inn’s cavernous kitchen.  
  
Castiel sighed, as he always did when he thought about Anna. He reached for the coffee like it was as lifeline, tightening his grip and letting the loose the last lingering feeling that yesterday had been nothing but a strange dream when the door swung open and an already familiar voice said,  
  
“Thank God for coffee.”  
  
Castiel smiled because there was only the sunshine as witness and pulled out a second mug. “Hello, Dean.”  
  
“You’re up early.”  
  
“I could say the same to you,” Castiel said mildly, turning around to watch Dean hover in the doorway, rumpled in jeans and a t-shirt that he wore like a comfortable second skin--so unlike the suit and tie that hadn’t seemed quite right and now Castiel understood why. Dean smile didn’t reach his eyes and his arms were crossed over his chest like he wasn’t quite sure he would be welcome but would never dream of asking.  
  
“Yeah, well, these days I’m lucky if I grab a solid four hours,” Dean said, stifling a yawn and shifting restlessly. “Sleep’s a commodity in my line of work.”  
  
Castiel nodded towards the kitchen table,  hoping it was a subtle enough invitation for Dean to take, and murmured, “It must be difficult, your job. Chasing after violence. I think anyone would lose sleep over it.”  
  
For a moment, Dean only stared and Castiel began to worry he had overstepped an invisible boundary-- _never talk about the job, how could a civilian begin to understand what it was like_ \--but then Dean shook his head and looked deliberately out the window.  
  
“If you say so, Cas.”  
  
Castiel had no “say so.” He held his questions, stemmed the tide of curiosity and let Dean retreat to the table. He said nothing as the chair scraped loudly against the floor and Dean sat down because he wanted Dean to stay, to take what he could of Castiel’s quiet morning and enjoy it as his own without reminders of what it was he was doing in Vermont, how he had come to be at Anna’s Haven. He wanted to know what had happened the night before, wanted to know if Dean and Sam had found the monster responsible for all that death, wanted to be told whether or not the case was closed and the agents would be safe for a time, but Castiel asked only one thing:  
  
“Coffee?”  
  
Dean gave him a pale imitation of a smirk and though his answer of, “Does a bear shit in the woods?” was crass, his tone was somehow gentle. Castiel rolled his eyes and poured the coffee without comment, sliding it across the tabletop and letting the silence settle once more. Dean’s smirk shifted almost imperceptibly, a here and  gone flicker of gratitude and surprise. Castiel chanced an actual smile, the weary but accepting expression he shared with all those who sought temporary, if well paid-for, respite in his home.    
  
Dean blinked, blew on his coffee and returned to staring out the window, gaze distant. Castiel left him to his early morning musings and went to work measuring and mixing, moving quietly about the kitchen while Dean tapped his foot and kept his thoughts to himself. He chanced occasional glances over his shoulder as he broke eggs and hummed under his breath,  pleased to see Dean unbend slowly but surely as the coffee dwindled in both their cups.  
  
It was Dean who, after half an hour of companionable enough silence,  abandoned the peace by asking, apropos of nothing, “So what’s your excuse?”  
  
“My excuse for what?” Castiel set down his whisk, titled his head with amused confusion.  
  
“Being awake at the asscrack of dawn.”  
  
“Really?” Castiel arched an eyebrow and stared because it seemed impossible that an agent of the FBI could be so unobservant before he decided that perhaps this was Dean’s way of dipping his toes back into the conversation. The thought was vaguely endearing. He waved a hand towards the stacks of dishes and the waiting griddle, explaining what he believed to be the obvious, “This is a bed and breakfast, Dean. There are certain expectations to be met.”  
  
“So you do this every morning?” Dean asked, running his thumb around the rim of his empty coffee cup and eying the oven.  
  
Castiel smiled faintly and poured them each another, “Every morning I have guests to serve, yes.”  
  
“And that would be most mornings?”  
  
“Fortunately for my bank account.”  
  
“Less fortunate for that whole sleeping-in thing,” Dean quipped, raising his cup in a mock toast.  
  
Castiel laughed and knocked his mug against Dean’s, “There’s always a price to be paid and someone to pay it.”  
  
Dean looked at him sharply, cup clattering against the table so abruptly that coffee sloshed hot and dark over the white tablecloth. Castiel open his mouth to ask what was wrong but then Dean’s expression cleared,  and he was shrugging as he reached for a napkin to mop up the mess he’d made.    
  
“I dunno, man. Seems like a lot of work, running a place like this. Alone.”    
  
Castiel leaned against the counter and reached for his abandoned bowl, still racing to catch up with Dean’s quicksilver moods. He held Dean’s now questioning but unhurried expression, stirring slowly so the egg whites wouldn’t break and he could try to puzzle him out. He entertained the notion that perhaps Dean was fishing for information, that perhaps Dean wanted to know more about him. He slowed the runaway train of his imagination and turned back to the stove with a quiet sigh, deciding there was no harm in telling Dean what little of interest there was to know.  
  
After all,  in  six months of quietly listening to his guests, sitting with them on his porch or by the fire, Castiel had come to know well the strange freedom in sharing one’s truths with someone new and without expectations.  
  
“It was never intended to be a one person job.” Castiel said softly, pouring the batter onto the griddle and listening to the sizzle. “My sister, Anna, and I were meant to run the inn together. It was going to be our great escape.”  
  
“Escape?” Dean asked with curtness  that couldn’t quite hide an undercurrent of concern. “Were you in some kind of trouble?”  
  
“No, nothing like that.” Castiel shook his head and smiled thinly, remembering that  Dean-- _Agent Fogerty_ \--was likely all too accustomed to seeing danger and darkness when often it was nothing more than the unfortunate and mundane. “Anna and I grew up in a rather strict family. Distant but demanding father. We were raised with the expectation that we would follow him in the family business.”  
  
“Because that always turns out so damned well.” Dean scoffed.  
  
Startled by the unexpectedly bitter interjection, Castiel looked over his shoulder to find Dean hunched and tense. He ventured a guess, “Was your father also in law enforcement?”  
  
“Something like that, yeah.” Dean crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in the chair, avoiding Castiel’s eyes. “So what the hell did dear old dad want out of you?”  
  
Castiel wanted to press the issue, wanted to chase the answers that lurked in the shadows of Dean’s defensive posture but suspected that if he tried he would be left only with an empty kitchen and more questions.  
  
Ignoring temptation, he turned back to his pancakes and gave Dean what asked for, “That was the problem. No one could be sure exactly what our father wanted, so when he died and control of the company passed to me and my siblings--my sister Anna and my brothers Raphael and Zachariah-- there was a long and painful power struggle over how to proceed,  how to best honor his legacy, and even what was morally right.”  
  
“Dude, what kind of business were you people running? Because from where I’m sitting it sounds a hell of a lot like the mob.”  
  
“Dean. I can safely promise you I’ve never been a member of organized crime,” Castiel teased, shaking his head while adding more batter to the griddle and tossing a pan of bacon on the stove to fry. “The truth is much less exotic, I’m afraid. Though perhaps no less cutthroat.” He laughed hollowly, “After all, the Novaks are experts at playing  the Washington insider game.”  
  
“Washington?” Dean’s chair scraped against the floor. “Gotta say, Cas, I can’t really picture you as a politician. In fact, you’re so damned honest and trusting, its the last thing I would have guessed.”  
  
Despite himself, Castiel flushed and smiled as Dean shuffled next to him, splayed over his kitchen counter, watching him and the food with obvious interest. Castiel turned the bacon over and explained, “Not politicians, Dean. Lobbyists, lawyers, policy writers and king-makers. My father and his father before him, they used their talents and the considerable Novak fortune to have the world work as they saw fit. They believed that with the right pressure and a little bit of patience, they could frame the future.  My siblings and I were meant to be the next generation, carrying on the family legacy.”  
  
“Still not buying it, dude.” Dean snatched a piece of bacon from the pan, grinning unrepentantly when Castiel swatted at him with the spatula. He spoke as he chewed, “You’re way too zen for boardrooms and backroom deals. Hell, you’ve even got a compost heap. What kind of big-whig mulches his damned garbage?”  
  
Castiel stared, trying to follow the twists and turns of Dean’s special brand of logic. Dean took advantage of his stupor to steal more bacon. Castiel shook his head and shoved him away from the skillet, continuing evenly, “Though I’m not sure what my recycling habits have to do with anything, you aren’t wrong.”  
  
“Because I’m always right.” Dean bragged, “No matter what Sam tells you. I’m awesome like that.”  
  
“As I was saying,” Castiel laughed, ignoring Dean’s boast, “I wasn’t really cut out for the Novak line of work. By the time I had gone to graduate school, I was convinced that freedom and democracy were more important than influence and power. I thought we would be better using the family fortune to do good by empowering those who didn’t have money or a voice. Anna agreed with me. Our brothers did not.”  
  
“They sound like dickheads,” Dean offered gruffly, inching imperceptibly closer.  
  
Castiel inclined his head in silent agreement before transferring the pancakes from griddled to plate. He sighed, “As the eldest siblings they thought they knew our father best. Believing they were protecting the sanctity of the business, they threatened Anna and I with litigation. I was still angry enough to let them try, but Anna convinced me that waging war over their ideology wasn’t worth it.” Cas paused, swallowed and tried to hold his composure, “Fuck ‘em, she said, let’s take daddy’s money and go be peace-loving hippies on some pretty farm. Open a charming BnB and spend our inheritance making other people happy.”  
  
“And here you are.”  
  
Castiel heard the approval in Dean’s words. He smiled around the familiar pang of Anna. “And here I am.”  The kitchen fell quiet for a moment and Castiel could almost picture the gears turning in Dean’s mind, could sense the curiosity and the hesitation that held him back from asking the natural next question. Castiel spared him the anxiety, licking his lips and gazing out the window at the view that she had loved. “Anna was killed in a car accident last year. Before we could open the inn.”  
  
“Fuck, Cas. I’m sorry,” Dean murmured. Castiel felt the press of five warm fingers on his shoulder, an anchor of kindness. “I didn’t mean to dig all this up for you.”  
  
Castiel brushed his hand over Dean’s and shook his head. “Don’t be. Its nice to remember her. I opened Anna’s Haven to honor her memory and because I’m grateful that she set me on a new path. I wish she were here, but I like to think she would be happy her dream for us is still alive.”  
  
“I’m sure she is, man.” Dean murmured, squeezing his shoulder and then drifting away to the window. “You did good with this place.”  
  
Castiel watched him retreat, regretting the loss of his touch until grease popped in the pan and splattered against his wrist, startling him from his singular focus on the slope of Dean’s back. He turned off the burner and asked, “You think so?”  
  
“I’ve been in six damned motels this month alone, Cas. Trust me when I tell you I know a little something about this sort of thing,” Dean said, looking over his shoulder and smirking.  
  
“You’re on the road so often?” Castiel shuffled to the refrigerator, fetching apple juice and letting thoughts of Dean’s mysterious life temper the ache of his sister.  
  
“Pretty much all the time.” Dean answered, his smile failing to disguise the weariness in his voice. “But that’s the job.”  
  
Castiel nodded solemnly, held Dean’s gaze and then gestured to the table, unsure of how to ease Dean’s exhaustion beyond doing his own job. He returned Dean’s imitation of a smile and gestured to the table,  setting down glasses as Dean ambled over, expression turning greedy as Castiel poured the juice and slid over a plate of pancakes and bacon. The gleam in Dean’s eyes when he produced with syrup was almost enough to make him laugh, but he chose instead to sit down beside his early morning guest and ask:  
  
“And do you like the job?”  
  
Dean grinned around his fork, syrup sticky on his lips. “Some mornings are better than others, that’s for damned sure.” Castiel rolled his eyes and passed him a napkin, flattered by Dean’s evident and noisy appreciation of his food. Dean scorned the napkin and took another obscene bite, swallowing with relish. “Gank the bad guy and then get breakfast. It definitely doesn’t suck to be me right now.”  
  
“Gank?” Castiel asked, sipping his coffee and watching Dean somehow manage to drown his pancakes in syrup with the glee of a small child and look suddenly shifty at the same time.  
  
“Uh, its FBI slang for arrest,” Dean said hurriedly, “You know, like, I totally ganked that bank robber or how many criminals have you ganked this year.”  
  
“Right.” Castiel laughed, tilting his chair back to reach for the remaining bacon to offer to Dean’s apparently bottomless appetite. “So, if you ganked the bad guy, can I assume that you and Sam were successful last night?”  
  
“Yeah. We got it done.” This time, Dean’s smile was small and genuine, the kind that softened his face and crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes. “Your woods and caves are once again safe for all the pampered suburbanites in need of a little R&R.”  
  
Castiel stared pointedly at Dean’s empty plate, “You don’t seem opposed to a little pampering, Dean.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I’m awesome,” Dean said shamelessly, waggling his eyebrows at Castiel. “Feel free to make me breakfast anytime.”  
  
Castiel flushed, heat spreading over his cheeks and down his throat. He shook his head and smirked at Dean, “Just this once and only because you saved the day.”  
  
“I save the day all the time,” Dean protested, scraping his fork through what remained of the maple syrup.  
  
“And Agent Clifford never has anything to do with that?”  
  
“Sammy? Please. I taught that kid everything he knows, so I can say without doubt he definitely didn’t do anything bacon-worthy last night.”  
  
“Fine. Fine.” Castiel gave in to his laughter, the sound of it echoing off the kitchen walls and brightening the morning as he surrendered to the dual assault of Dean’s charming arrogance and pathetic yearning eyes. He handed over what would have been his own share of the bacon and smiled. “Really, though, I am glad. That you caught the murderer. And that you and Sam are safe.”  
  
“Me too, Cas, me too.” Dean mumbled through his mouthful of food. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and downed his juice. “And, hey, thanks for everything, man. You didn’t have to do any of this.”  
  
“I wanted to.” Castiel wondered how Dean could insist he was “awesome” in one breath and be so hesitant in the next. He wondered if he had imagined the faint color on Dean’s cheeks when Dean pushed his plate away and said,  
  
“Well, it was awesome. You’re awesome.”  
  
“Everything is just awesome.” Castiel said with a grin, wrinkling his nose at the sound of that word on his tongue.  
  
Dean gave him a winning smile, the kind that Castiel imagined worked very well for him everywhere he went. It was impossible to think of looking at anything else, so he stared and smiled back. The kitchen fell quiet and peaceful until Dean began to shift and his easy expression crumbled into familiar tired acceptance.

  
“Awesome or not, we’ll be out of your hair soon. As soon as Sam gets his lazy ass out of bed we’ll stop trampling all over your hospitality.” Dean said, standing up and taking his very, very empty plate to the dishwasher.  
  
Startled, Castiel murmured, “You aren’t in my hair, Dean.” Dean shot him an unamused glare. Cas rolled his eyes and tried for a smile, “And even if you were, there’s no rush to leave.”  
  
Dean stared at him while Castiel surprised himself with how much that was true, how much he didn’t want Dean to rinse his plate and then wash his hands of Castiel and Anna’s Haven.  
  
“There’s always another job, Cas.” Dean said, almost apologetically, picking at the corners of a dish towel and avoiding his Castiel’s eyes.    
  
“Surely you’ve got enough time to spend the day,” Castiel fumbled for excuses to give to Dean, “Let Agent Clifford have his breakfast. He’s earned it, after all.”  
  
Dean snorted with disdain, “Fine. Sammikins can have his damned breakfast.” He pointed at Castiel, “But only because that means you’re gonna make more bacon and I’m gonna steal it from him.”  
  
Castiel smiled around his relief and angled for a just a little more of Dean’s time. He wasn’t above bribery. Even if it was going to cost him several hours in the kitchen.  “And if you stick around a little longer than that, you can join the rest of the guests for the afternoon wine reception.”  
  
“Do I look like the kind of guy who drinks wine?” Dean said dismissively, gesturing at his frayed jeans and faded t-shirt.  
  
Castiel pretended to consider, bit his lip and offered casually, “I’ve been told the wine I serve goes well with my apple pie.”  
  
“There’s going to be pie?” Dean straightened, standing to rapt attention.  
  
“Perhaps.” Castiel demurred, tilting his head and stifling his amusement.  
  
Dean grinned and winked, “There’s going to be pie because you think I’m awesome, right?”  
  
Castiel’s heartbeat echoed in his ears, his palms damp and his skin warm from the strange sweetness of Dean’s charm, from the way he’d made the morning seem so new and welcome, no matter the shifts and turns of his moods or how little he really knew about Dean beyond the softness of his smile and the hot, firm press of his hand.  
  
Castiel held Dean’s gaze and murmured, “And because you let me talk about Anna.”  
  
Dean blinked but didn’t look away as Castiel expected. He watched with his breath caught in his throat as Dean cross the kitchen floor, clasped his shoulder with that firm, hot hand and said, “Alright, Cas. We’ll stay a little longer.”

Castiel smiled and Dean flushed, backing away and grumbling, “If only for the pie.”  
  
Castiel thought that was enough to start.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to chat, I do have a tumblr (bubblelounge.tumblr.com). I don't post much but I am always happy to have conversations <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam provides some useful commentary. Cas maybe insults the car and drives a hard bargain. Dean makes a promise or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again, everyone! I am so happy you are enjoying--I am having a lot of fun writing this story (as evidenced by the hopefully quick enough updates). 
> 
> Just for reference, I've got 2-3 more chapters plotted following this one. I hope you'll continue to stick with me and be entertained!

The afternoon was proving as charmed as the morning, the long hours of the day fading into an evening that was just warm enough for lingering on the front porch barefoot and careless, admiring the green of  trees still untouched by the first hints of fall. Castiel watched his guests mill about with their glasses of riesling or cups of coffee and breathed a sigh of tired satisfaction. From the unexpected sweetness of a too early morning to this temporary respite of wine and indulgence, there had been no break in things that needed doing, no matter how tempted Castiel had been to offer Sam and Dean a private hike in the vast, rolling forests of his property. Though he suspected that the agents could not be long for Anna’s Haven, the pull of their world an equal and opposite force to the easy lull of his slice of life, Castiel knew he couldn’t in good conscience neglect his duties in order to cater to Dean Fogerty’s whims. Whatever those whims may have been and no matter how curious Castiel was to find out what made the man tick beyond the delights of sugar and fighting crime, there had been other breakfasts to prepare, beds to change, reservations to be made, and errands to run.  
  
To say nothing of the multiple pies he had committed to baking in a ridiculous, romantic moment of weakness because he liked Dean’s smile and thought that the world (and Dean) deserved to see more of it.  He believed that had she known, Anna would have laughed at him and then with him, would have been been delighted to discover that her once so serious younger brother was capable of scrambling for two hours to knead dough and peel apples because he had been stricken by sudden infatuation. She would have teased him until he lit up with a little of his temper and then helped him roll the dough, bitching all the while that she hoped that what’s-his-name was worth all this effort.  
  
And his effort had been worth the knick on his thumb, the wild state of his hair thanks to the kitchen’s humidity, and even enduring Sam’s bemused expression when he discovered exactly why he and his partner weren’t vacating the premises. It had been worth it all when the smell of spiced apple and fresh pastry filled Anna’s Haven,  dreamy and warm like the comfort of a lazy afternoon. It had been worth it when Dean finally showed his face again after beating a hasty retreat that morning with excuses of " _lighting a fire under Sam’s ass"_ on his breath, by poking his head into Castiel’s kitchen and doing his best wide-eyed impression of a puppy begging for a treat.  
  
Castiel had nodded solemnly as though he’d never considered a more important request, crept near enough to smell Dean’s aftershave, and then told him in no uncertain terms that agent of the FBI or no, he was simply going to have to be patient. Sam’s ringing laughter had been enough to trigger his own and poor, starving Dean had stalked off into the living room grumbling about _“sticks up asses and ingrate little shits.”_ Sam had raised his eyebrows, pointed at himself, then at Cas, shrugged his shoulders unrepentantly and left Castiel with an approving smirk before wandering off in search of his terribly wounded partner.  
  
The amusement, the strange easy camaraderie he felt for both Sam and Dean,  had been enough to give him the energy and the motivation to plate his pies, wipe down the serving table, uncork the wine, and put on the face that Gabriel always referred to as, _“Cassie: the Hostess with the Mostess.”_  
  
So, despite the work, despite the lack of sleep that made his skin feel too tight around his eyes, the day had been good and  evening now unfurled before him, complete with the taste of apple pie and the low hum of happy conversation. The sights and sounds of his guests, happy and at ease,  filled Castiel with a sense of satisfaction and purpose, enough to quiet the lingering restlessness he felt when he allowed himself to be distracted by thoughts of Dean. Instead of indulging in the too long forgotten sensation of new attraction, Castiel made an effort to speak to each of his guests, to be present for them as they deserved.  He forced his gaze not to linger on the long lines of Dean’s sprawl against the side of his car, where Dean kept himself deliberately apart from the mingling couples who crowded around Castiel and fed him praise for his exceptional baking skills. Castiel smiled when Mrs. Harrington begged him for the recipe and absolutely did not wonder what Dean thought of the massive slice of pie he’d cut before running off to hide in plain sight.  He listened attentively to Sandra and Diane as they sighed happily over the honeymoon cottage and definitely did not devote any further thought to how Dean kept looking at him like he was waiting for Castiel to cross the lawn and invade his very obvious attempt at having personal space.    
  
After all, he told himself, no matter how much it felt otherwise, Castiel barely knew Dean and he had no real way of knowing whether or not he would be welcome.  
  
“If you want to talk to him, you’re definitely going to have to go over there.”  
  
Castiel’s spine stiffened in surprise,  at the sound of Sam’s low, affable voice at the back of his head. A voice that was quickly followed by badly smothered laughter at his expense. Castiel schooled his expression and turned slowly to dissuade Sam from any idea that he’d actually managed to catch Castiel off-guard. Sam’s innocent smile implied that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Castiel gave him a flat, unimpressed stare that implied he was not in the least fooled by Sam’s act. A little charmed, maybe, but certainly not fooled.    
  
“What?” Castiel asked blandly, resisting the urge  to shift restlessly and try to catch a glimpse of Dean around Sam’s towering frame.  
  
Sam smirked and stepped aside to lean against the porch railing, rolling the stem of his wine glass between his long fingers.  Castiel resolutely kept his eyes on Sam because Sam was also his guest and worth of his attention, even if Sam kept giving him these _looks_.  Sam took a sip of his wine, face scrunching up as though he wasn’t quite used to the taste. Castiel couldn’t help but smile.  
  
Sam swallowed and then jerked his head in the direction of the yard, rolling his eyes as he explained, “For as much as Dean likes to pretend he’s the life of the party, he’s actually a big baby who can’t stand being the center of attention.” Sam’s gaze narrowed, “Or at least he can’t stand being the center of multiple people’s attention. “  
  
Castiel ignored the implication. “You seem to know each other very well.”  
  
Sam’s eyebrows crept up his forehead as he laughed, “You could say that. But I think even a newcomer like you to the strange and often annoying world of Dean would probably figure out pretty quickly that Dean’s not so great at being normal. Or polite. Or able to mingle without the motivation of the job.” Sam paused, took another sip of his wine and grimaced, “Or without a shot of whiskey. But I guess I can’t blame the guy. Somedays I think the job’s the only thing he’s ever known.”  
  
Fascinated, Castiel looked at Sam and then looked at Dean, who glared at their huddle and then stomped away to lean on the car hood. Sam shook his head and snorted with what sounded like fond derision. Castiel watched Dean for a moment longer and then turned back to Sam.  
  
“Unlike you?” Castiel murmured, taking stock of Sam and how different he was from Dean--how he smiled more and seemed to take the kindness of others in stride, without Dean’s odd mix of suspicion, gratitude and doubt.  
  
Sam ran a hand through his hair, gaze drifting towards Dean’s pretense of a careless sprawl against the car. “Well, I...uh...saw a little bit more of life, real life--the kind without bad guys and late night chases through the woods--had a chance to see another side of things before I got sucked into this mess.”  
  
“So what sucked you--” Sam’s lips twitched. Castiel frowned, “Let me rescind and rephrase that: so what made you decide to become an agent? To get involved with all this...mess?”  
  
“I have an idiot for a brother.” Sam said flatly. He dropped Castiel’s gaze and stared at the worn wood of the porch, sighing, “A persuasive, well-intentioned, idiot of a brother. He convinced me that I needed to be a part of this. You know, saving people, doing whatever I could to do good.”  
  
Sam looked at him with something like pained amusement and even with all his years observing the comings and goings of his father’s kingdom,  Castiel thought he had never met more interesting men than Sam and Dean.  
  
“Anyways,” Sam said, clearing his throat and setting his almost empty glass on the rail, “Don’t tell him I ever said this, but he wasn’t wrong.”  
  
Castiel smiled and whispered conspiratorially, “Should I ever meet the man in question, I promise your secret is safe with me. After all, we younger siblings have to stick together, don’t we?” Sam nodded, slouching against the railing, all long-limbed ease in the afternoon sun. Castiel indulged his seemingly endless curiosity, “So, a brother. What’s he like?”  
  
Sam laughed, “Cocky. Over-protective. Always thinks he knows best. Incapable of being normal.” Sam pointed in Dean’s direction and rolled his eyes, “A lot like someone else I know.”  
  
Castiel’s gaze immediately followed the invisible line from Sam’s finger to Dean’s one-man stand against wine and cheese receptions. Castiel wondered why he found Dean’s obstinate and apparently neither normal nor unusual sulk oddly endearing.  Sam clapped him on the shoulder, startling him from his Dean-induced distraction once more.  
  
“Look, I’m going to go get another piece of pie before Dean figures out how to steal it all. But if you’ve got a beer or maybe some cheap booze lying around, do me a favor and take it over to him before he starts acting twitchy and scaring off all the nice, paying customers.”  
  
Despite it feeling like a bit of a betrayal to poor Dean, Castiel laughed and murmured, “Thanks for the suggestion.” He tilted his head to call out to Sam’s retreating back, “And, Sam, since I didn’t have the chance to tell you at breakfast--I’m glad you ganked the culprit.”  
  
Sam yelped as he promptly stumbled over the top stair, feet tangling and arms flailing. Castiel rushed to help, but Sam only shot a poisonous glare in Dean’s general direction and stormed off into Castiel’s living room, still shaking his head and muttering under his breath.  
  
~~

“What’s so funny?” Castiel asked three minutes and one very clandestine visit to the kitchen later when he crossed the lawn to find Dean chuckling quietly.   
  
Dean smirked. “Just enjoying Sammy’s natural grace and poise.” He eyed the two beers dangling from Castiel’s fingers, “One of those for me?”  
  
“You shouldn’t be so hard on Agent Clifford, seeing as he was the one who told me to bring you a beer,” Castiel demurred, handing over the bounty to Dean’s greedy clutches.  
  
“Sam’s all heart, man.” Dean scoffed while popping the top from the bottle and gesturing for Castiel to pass his over, proving chivalry wasn’t entirely dead as he cracked it open and returned it with a wink and a smile. “So what did you do to make the big idiot trip on his overgrown feet?”  
  
“What makes you think I did something?” Castiel asked, feigning ignorance of the knowledge that Dean had been watching his entire exchange with Sam. Dean shot him an amused look and took a long swig of beer, throat working as he swallowed. Castiel took a smaller sip, glaring while he grumbled, “I only congratulated him on ganking another criminal.”  
  
Dean choked on his beer, laughing so hard tears gathered the corners of his eyes. Castiel stared, bewildered and a little enchanted by Dean’s sudden breakdown.“Christ, Cas. That’s hilarious. I can’t tell you why that’s hilarious, but I will say thanks for beer and for making me laugh harder than I have in a long time.”  
  
Castiel stared and shrugged helplessly, “And also for the pie.”  
  
Dean snapped his fingers and pursed his lips, “You’re damned right. That pie was worth giving thanks.”  
  
“So you enjoyed it?” Castiel asked, though the empty plate on the hood of the car told the story, because he selfishly, ridiculously wanted to hear Dean sing his praises. If only a little. He was only human.  
  
“It wasn’t half bad, Cas. Never would have thought that cheddar cheese with apple pie was going to be anything other than an abomination, but you proved me wrong.”  
  
“I thought you were always right.” Cas smiled and made himself at home next to Dean, feeling the sun-warmed metal of the car through the seat of his jeans and the slickness of the bottle between his fingers.  
  
Dean drained his beer dry. “Even God has a shitty day every now and then.”  
  
“Your humility astounds me, Dean.” Castiel rolled his eyes and drummed his fingers against the hood, “Here I thought the car might have been compensating for something....”  
  
“Whoa. Dude, are you insulting my baby?” Dean growled, shooting him a look that Castiel imagined was intended to chill his blood and break his bones.  
  
“No,” Castiel answered mildly, trying to remember the last time he’d been less intimidated and more amused. “I was insulting you.”  
  
Dean choked, half outrage and half-laughter, “Oh, you’re a comedian now, huh?”  
  
“That’s me. Innkeeper and comic,” Castiel teased. “Master of all kinds of entertaining.”  
  
“Do me and my car a favor and stick to the charming host routine, Cas.” Dean demanded, waving a totally non-threatening finger in Castiel’s face.  
  
“Of course I meant no offense to the car.” Castiel smiled innocently and patted the car’s roof. He struggled to keep from dissolving into laughter when Dean’s smug expression turned disgruntled when he finally realized that he had not been included in Castiel’s terribly heartfelt apology.  
  
“You’re damn right, you didn’t.” Dean said rubbing his hand down the car’s flank and glaring at Castiel. “You’d have to be dumber than a monkey’s ass to not respect a 1967 Impala.”  
  
While Castiel had no particular opinion on cars in general, he wasn’t so blind he couldn’t tell how much this one meant to Dean, even if it was the most non-regulation U.S. government vehicle he’d ever seen. “It’s a very nice car, Dean.”  
  
Dean stared at him balefully. Apparently Castiel had just damned with faint praise. Dean trailed his fingers over the rim of the windshield, “She’s been with me and Sam for a long time. Goes with us on all the jobs, keeps me sane when I feel like the shit’s never gonna end.”  
  
Castiel stayed quiet but passed over what remained of his beer, watching Dean out of the corner of his eye as he polished it off with a mumbled, “Thanks, Cas,” and gazed at Sam up on the front porch, texting on his phone and smiling politely at Mrs. Beauregard.  
  
“You drive everywhere?” Castiel murmured when Dean finished the beer and set it by his feet, troubled expression clearing.  
  
“Yup. Baby always takes us where we need to go.”  
  
“I’ve always preferred flying to driving,” Castiel said conversationally, only to be confronted with Dean’s overt horror and shuddering protestation,  
  
“Dude. That’s insane. Why would you say that?”  
  
Castiel narrowed his eyes in confusion, “Its not meant to be an insult to your...baby...Dean. I just prefer to fly. The freedom to go anywhere in the world. It seems so much less confining than driving.” He gently thumped the side of the Impala, “Even in a car as nice as this.”  
  
“Hell no, man. I refuse to believe that.” Dean shook his head and crowded against Castiel, apparently trying to convince him through sheer force of presence. Castiel refused to admit that the tactic might have been working. At this distance, close enough to notice a spate of freckles across Dean’s nose, Castiel found himself much more persuadable. He blinked and noticed Dean was still speaking, “You just haven’t been in the right car. With the right music and the right road.”  
  
“And the right driver?” Castiel interjected softly, though Dean barely noticed, barreling on in his zeal to make a convert of him.  
  
Dean poked his chest, fervency reaching a fever pitch, “Tonight, I’m going to take you out and make you change your mind.”  
  
Castiel opened his mouth to say that Dean was welcome to take him anywhere, anytime, because even though he fully intended to keep his frequent flyer miles he’d keep an open-mind where Dean was concerned, but a loud-ringing and obnoxious vibration against his thigh cut-off Dean’s rant and drowned out any “yes” Castiel had to give.

Dean shuffled away, the back of his neck flush red as he reached into his pocket and mumbled, “Sorry, man. I gotta take this.” He turned his back to Castiel and put the phone to his ear, “Hey, Bobby. What’s the word?”  
  
Castiel slumped against the car and cast his eyes towards the heavens, wondering what he’d done to deserve this. By the time he’d run out of his silent, impotent rage against fate, Dean was off the phone and Sam was by his side, both of them bearing the serious, weary expressions of Fogerty and Clifford.  
  
Castiel knew the afternoon was over before Dean returned to the car and sighed noisily, “Fuck, Cas, I hate to cut and run, but we’ve got a job.”  
  
Castiel nodded, disappointment heavy in his chest, but understanding in his words, “And you need to leave now.”  
  
“Sorry, Cas,” Sam said, “We’ve got to get to Ohio as soon as possible.”  
  
Castiel tried to tell them to stop apologizing, to insist that he understood that saving lives came before private joyrides and beer, but Dean cut him off at the pass,  
  
“And don’t you a damned word about flying being faster.” Dean groused half-heartedly, not quite meeting Castiel’s eyes.  
  
He could, however, feel the curious weight of Sam’s stare before Sam ran a hand through his hair, declared, “Uh, I’ll go get our stuff and meet you in ten, Dean,” and then took off for the house, leaving him once more alone with Dean.  
  
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Castiel responded, tempering the still lingering sense of frustration by looking at his nails and remarking idly, “I was going to offer you the rest of the pie for the road, but if you don’t want it....”  
  
“Oh, I want it!” Dean rushed to assure him before noticing Castiel’s sly grin, coughing, and attempting to look totally disinterested. “I mean, it seems like a damned shame to let it go to waste, so I’ll do you a favor and take it off your hands.”  
  
“Fine,” Castiel assented with a soft smile, “But I want something in return.”  
  
“Name it.” Dean said cavalierly. “After all you’ve done for us this weekend, as long as you don’t want my soul, I’ll see what I can do.”  
  
“You can keep your soul, Dean,” Castiel laughed. “I’ll settle for a raincheck on that ride that’s going to change my worldview.”  
  
Dean smirked, “Done.”  
  
Castiel held up his hand. “And one more thing.”  
  
“Let’s hear it, Cas.”  
  
“Send me a postcard or two from the road.”  
  
Dean scoffed, “You know that Sammy and I never get sent anywhere cool, right? Its all small-towns and deadbeat motels.” His frown sharpened, “Ah, so that’s it. You just want to hear all about how much our usual accommodations suck compared to your little operation.”  
  
Castiel touched a finger to his lips, “You figured out my nefarious scheme.” Dean laughed and Castiel shook his head, risking a step closer to confess, “Or maybe I just want to hear from you.”  
  
Dean blinked, looked around wildly with that startled deer-in-the-headlights expression that Castiel already knew so well it felt like he’d been watching Dean forever. Dean bit his lip, clasped Castiel’s shoulder just as he had that morning, his voice rough and low like bourbon and smoke when he promised:  
  
“You drive a hard bargain, Cas. And God only knows why you wanna hear about our crappy life, but, yeah, if that's what you want, I’ll keep in touch.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, sorry this update took so long--the chapter got lengthy and I am forced to break into two parts. I should have the next by 12/26--and the rating will finally go up <3
> 
> Merry Christmas and thanks for all the lovely feedback and encouragement!!

The first postcard came two and half-weeks later, just as Castiel was starting to believe that Dean and Sam had been a strange, weekend long hallucination. By the time he received the dog-eared missive, the last vestiges of summer were fading, September starting to turn towards the fire-colors of October and bringing enough guests to Anna’s Haven to distract him from empty mailboxes and daydreams.  He held the postcard under the porch-light, spared ten seconds to admire the picturesque lake and the blue-sky horizon beneath a cheerful red greeting, before flipping it over because while he was sure Junction City was a fine place, it didn’t hold half the appeal of anything Dean would have to say to him.  
  
 **Howdy from Junction City!**  
  
 _Cas-_  
  
 _Kansas is boring and flat. Since you wanted to know so bad._  
  
 _Dean_  
  
 _ps: The Cross Street Motor Lodge doesn’t have shit on Anna’s. Even if the beds come with magic fingers._  
  
Castiel laughed, closed his eyes and tried to picture a dark motel room in Kansas, envisioned Dean’s gleefully lewd expression upon discovering the classic motel extra. Dean hadn’t said much, but in the postscript, which was smudged as though Dean had added the words and then thought better of them, there was more than enough for Castiel. Later, in the quiet of his own bedroom, with Dean’s terse letter tucked in the pages of his novel, he wondered if Dean had tried the magic fingers.  
  
He was willing to bet the farm that Dean had.  
  
 **Kearney, Missouri: Come for Jesse James & Stay for the Pie!**  
  
 _Cas-_  
  
 _Definitely NOT staying for the pie. Yours was way better, man.  I don’t think they’ve changed their recipe since the Civil War. Might be using the same fruit, too, if the taste was anything to go by. A crime against freaking humanity, I tell you._  
  
 _Anyway- another town, another job. Sammy’s being a princess._  
  
 _-Dean_  
  
 _Ps: If I’m being a princess, its because he pulled a gun on me, Cas. A GUN. -Sam_  
 _Pps: Don’t listen to him, Cas. Its not like he’s never accidentally tried to kill me before. -Dean_  
 _Ppps: Ugh, do you even listen to yourself? -Sam_  
 _Pppps: All the fucking time. I’m awesome. Whoops, looks like you’re out of room & shit out of luck! -D_  
  
After Junction City and the no-tell motel, the postcards came with endearing irregularity--as though once Dean had risked that first turn of the spigot there had been no good reason to stop the one-way flow of communication. Checking the mailbox at the end of his long driveway at the end of a long day became a favorite part of Castiel’s routine, a tiny thing he kept just for himself, no matter how many innocent questions his guests asked when they stumbled upon his haphazard map made out of postcards.  Even though it raised eyebrows, invited questions, Castiel stuck each postcard  to the shiny metal of his refrigerator so he could  he could follow the path Sam and Dean traveled each morning as he made yet another order of eggs sunny-side up.  
  
As he cooked the same breakfasts and made the same beds, Castiel watched their progress and felt as though he were walking a path entirely new.  
  
 **Find your Fortune in Prosperity, Indiana!**  
  
 _Cas-_  
  
 _Don’t ever get married. Why, you ask? Just trust me on this, dude.  The job we just worked has me convinced that nothing but unholy shit comes from holy matrimony._  
  
 _(I try not to agree with Dean, but this time he’s right---Sam.)_  
  
 _Heh, you can imagine how bad it was if even Mr. Puppy Dog and White Picket Fence is temporarily turned off of normality. So, yeah, stay away from wedding bells and take care of yourself, Cas._  
  
 _Dean_  
  
 _PS-- Get this. The dumb sonofabitch husband took back his crazy-ass-bitch of  wife. Some people, man, some people._  
  
Granted, it was a path that was so often deeply amusing and worrying at the same time that Castiel wished he could write back, put his own pen to paper and ask his thousand and one questions-- What the hell are you talking about? Are you well? Do you think of me as often as I think of you? Is there anything, anything at all I can do to help? Do you remember the rain-check you owe me? Tell me that you are safe?  
  
But there was no such thing as a return address for a life spent on the road and Dean was well out of range to hear what Castiel had to say. So Castiel read their words, listened to Dean speak to him across the distance, and kept Sam and Dean’s adventures alive on his refrigerator door.  
  
 **Portland, Oregon: Making All the Other Cities GREEN with Envy!**  
  
 _Jesus Christ. I am starting to think it never stops raining in this damned town. Sammy fucking loves it--organic this and organic that everywhere, vegetables as far as the eye can see._  
  
 _Today a waitress tried to offer me vegan pie. I don’t care how hot she was--a pie ain’t pie if there’s no butter in the crust.  You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Cas?_  
  
 _Damned hippies._  
  
 _-Dean_  
  
In the evenings, he would open the fridge, take a beer and turn the cards over to let Dean and occasionally Sam’s handwriting stare back at him, black and blue words awash in the yellow kitchen light.  
  
Yet later in the evenings, when the inn was quiet and his thoughts were softened by beer or by bourbon, Castiel would satisfy his near constant desire to know more, to feel closer to the little snippets of Dean and Sam he received on 4x6 pieces of cardboard. With each new postcard, he sat at his computer and carefully pecked in the names of far-flung towns, searched the headlines for clues of what could have been enough to call for Agents Fogerty and Clifford. He made careful notes of what he read, worrying for the state of modern journalism when the sensational articles often detailed such strange crimes Castiel began to believe that perhaps Dean and Sam were the heirs to Mulder and Scully.  
  
In between the accounts of mysterious electrocution by hair-dryer and a girl who scratched her head until she had no more scalp and then no more skull, Castiel tried to find them.  Their names were never directly mentioned, but by the time he received his next letter, the damage and destruction in the place before had stopped, and Castiel believed without question that it could only be thanks to Sam and Dean.  
  
But beyond the sensationalism, the impossible claims of werewolf sightings and demonic possession, the reports were often gruesome, horrible and sad recountings that left Castiel feeling hollow, weighed down by the aching wonder that this was what Dean and Sam faced everyday.    
  
 **Come see CARHENGE in Beautiful Alliance, Nebraska!**  
  
 _Cas,_  
  
 _Sometimes this job really sucks. A lot. Like when there are kids involved and there's not a single good answer to be found because this world can be a real shithole._  
  
 _I guess that’s why whatever passes for God these days gave us liquor and sex. So we can fucking forget long enough to go to sleep._  
  
 _ ~~I wish I could~~ _  
  
_Dean_  
  
The night he received the card from Alliance was cold, late October weather turned crisp enough that Castiel thought there might be frost on the lawn in the morning and he considered wearing gloves the next time he walked down the driveway to his mailbox. His bare fingers were stiff with chill by the time he abandoned reading and re-reading Dean’s words by the porchlight. His chest was tight with helpless worry by the time he pushed through the front door and ignored his living room full of guests who were paying the foliage-premium and probably deserved better than the host of Anna’s Haven retreating to the kitchen and wishing he could hear Dean’s voice so Castiel could say something to try and take the desolation of his letter away.  
  
Selfishly, Castiel wished he’d bargained for Dean’s phone number in exchange for the pie because while the postcards were quaint and wonderful, a phone number would have been practical and even if Dean had never answered his calls, he could have a message. Something, anything to let Dean know that even if Castiel was powerless to do anything but care, there was at least that much waiting for Dean outside of liquor and sex.  
  
But the only way he could think to reach Dean was to call the number on the business card Sam had given him when he had been only Agent Clifford standing on Castiel’s doorstep asking about a murdered man in the local woods.  He could hear the murmur of his guests through the door as he pulled the business card from his wallet and laid it flat on the table next to the postcard. Without thought, his gaze drifted back to Dean’s now familiar handwriting and he wanted to talk to Dean and to know what wish he had given up making with an intense rush of determination he hadn’t felt since he and Anna had walked out on their brothers with only an inheritance and wild dream.  
  
He didn’t have time to question his actions before his phone was cradled against his ear and the gruff voice of a stranger was barking, “FBI. Agent Cook speaking.”  
  
Castiel was so startled by the not-Sam on the end of the line that he stayed silent, only to have the gruff voice become even gruffer, laced with just a hint anger. “Well, I ain’t got all day. You going to say something or what?”  
  
Castiel felt so much like an awkward fourteen year-old making his first phone call to the person he liked that he almost hung-up, but then he remembered he was thirty-three and Dean needed him. He cleared his throat, hoping his very own low-register would convey a confidence he didn’t possess as he said:  
  
“Agent Cook. I was hoping to speak with Agent Fogerty.”  
  
“Fogerty? Fogerty?” Agent Cook grumbled, suddenly suspicious, “Oh. You want Dean.”  
  
“Yes?” Castiel hedged. “Is he available?”  
  
“I don’t go giving my agents whereabouts to anyone who can pick up a phone.” Cook remarked coolly.  “So who the hell are you?”  
  
“Castiel Novak. I met Sam and Dean, I mean Agents Clifford and Fogerty--”  
  
Cook cut him off. “I know who you are. Bed and Breakfast boy, right?”  
  
Castiel frowned, uncertain of whether to be pleased he warranted a mention or displeased that he had somehow come to be known by that moniker. He sided with hesitantly pleased, because he liked that Dean had spoken of him and he didn’t want to upset Agent Cook.  
  
“I suppose so, yes.”  
  
“So, what’s the problem? Its my understanding Dean and Sam took care of the situation up there.”  
  
“There’s no problem,” Castiel hastened to assure Agent Cook. “The situation was handled. The criminal was ganked.”  
  
“Ganked, huh?” Cook scoffed roughly, “And which one of the idiots told you that?”  
  
“Dean?” Castiel hedged again, wary of getting Dean in trouble but somehow even warier of lying to this man he’d never met and probably never would meet.  
  
“Figures. Most days that one ain’t got a lick of sense. ” Cook said with the sort of fond resignation that implied he’d probably been Dean’s boss for quite some time. Cook sighed, “So, if there’s no trouble, what do you need Dean for?”  
  
Castiel considered how much of the truth he could tell. Should he say that Dean had been sending him postcards from the road and today Castiel had gotten a letter that was deeply concerning? He wasn’t sure how much the FBI appreciated their agents involving civilians in their cases even if Dean’s usual missives generally included more details on the local dining, drinking, and sleeping establishments than the minutiae of the daily grind.  
  
He went with the truth because Castiel believed in the simplicity and the power of the truth.  
  
“I just wanted to talk to him, that’s all.”  
  
Cook was silent for a long moment before grumbling. “Oh hell. Listen, son, I’m not running some sort of dating service here.”    
  
“I didn’t think that you were,” Castiel insisted, lowering voice even though no one else was present to bear witness to his humiliation. He fiddled with the postcard from Alliance and mumbled, “I wasn’t. Its not like that. I just...its only.” He swallowed and finished lamely, “I apologize for wasting your time, Agent Cook.”  
  
“Oh, just give me your damned number so I can stop feeling  like I’m going to hell for kicking a puppy,” Cook said wearily.  
  
Castiel elected not to look a gift horse in the mouth and raced to give Cook his phone number before the man came back to his senses and told Castiel to leave his agents well enough alone.  
  
“You’ll tell Dean I called?” Castiel asked quietly, drifting towards the fridge and tracing his finger over Junction City and then Kearney and down to Prosperity.  
  
“He’d kill me if I didn’t.” Cook groused and then there was nothing a but a dial-tone ringing in Castiel’s ear and a little bit of impatient hope warming his cheeks.  
  
~~  
  
The next morning, Castiel prepared an obscenely large breakfast to distract himself from his silent phone. His guests seemed happy enough to be spoiled with brioche french toast with fresh berry compote, but Castiel’s guilty conscience would not be assuaged by breakfast foods alone. He offered to lead his motley crew of weekenders a guided hike of the forests so they could best enjoy the foliage for which they were paying a premium to stay at Anna’s Haven. He was unsurprised when everyone accepted, relieved to have an excuse to get out of the house and away from the postcard map and his pointless worry over Dean.  He left the phone sitting on the kitchen table and made a vow that this morning he was damned well going to do his job because while he may not have been saving humanity or ganking criminals in the middle of the night, Castiel still wanted what he gave to the world to be of value.  
  
The weather was crisp, the blue sky bright and clear as though God wished to give him and his guests the most serene backdrop for the the trees that caught fire with the colors of fall and lit up this narrow corner of the world for a few fleeting weeks. The forest floor crunched beneath his boots while Castiel rambled on, imparting arcane histories of the land and what he’d learned about dendrology through his amateur fascination with the beauty of his woods.  His guests trailed behind him like school children on a field-trip, one enthusiastic thirty-something from California actually raising her hand to ask him a question and then proceed to gush over the novelty of experiencing seasons.  For all that Castiel was perversely tempted to promise that if everyone was on their very best behavior he’d put little marshmallows in their hot cocoa when they got back home, it was difficult to be anything but charmed and rejuvenated by the afternoon.  
  
The cool air in his lungs cleared his mind, the smiles and chatter of these people who trusted him with their comfort and their enjoyment reminded Castiel why he did what he did everyday. As they trudged back to the inn with high spirits and in search of lunch, Castiel was reminded of why when he had protested that he didn’t know the first thing about hospitality, Anna had give him a sour look and informed him that of everyone in their family Castiel was the only natural born guardian, the one most susceptible to fits and piques of caring.  
  
By the time he managed to break free of his grateful guests and escape into the relative safety of the kitchen, Castiel was smiling and there were 8 missed calls showing on his ancient and cracked cell-phone screen. The smile dimmed, his heart picked up the pace as he checked and found no voicemails, just the same missed number eight times over.  The clarity he’d found was once more muddled with worry and a selfish frisson of excitement that perhaps Dean was his missed connection. He found just enough patience to rush up the stairs to his bedroom before pressing the worn green button that would call back the unknown number and perhaps bring him a measure of peace he hadn’t known was missing from his life before Dean and Sam showed up on his doorstep.  
  
“Jesus Christ, Cas! Where the hell have you been?”  
  
Castiel hadn’t spoken to Dean since a sunny afternoon in September but there wasn’t a chance in Heaven or Hell that he could have forgotten. He sat on the edge of his bed and smiled.  
  
“Hello, Dean.”  
  
“Don’t hello, Dean me! I’ve called like a thousand freaking times this morning, you son of a bitch!”  
  
“Eight times,” Castiel said blankly, startled by Dean’s vehemence. He thought he could hear the rumble of a car’s engine and the vague murmurs of another voice in the background. He wondered if Dean was with Sam and where they were going and had the wild, useless thought that it was dangerous for Dean to talk on the phone while driving.  
  
“What?” Dean barked, distracting Castiel from his fretting.  
  
“You called eight times, not a thousand,” Castiel clarified with a calm he didn’t feel, scrambling to understand why Dean sounded so frantic.  
  
Dean snapped, “Thanks for that, Cas. That’s really fucking helpful. But now that we’ve clarified that you can count, want to tell me where the hell you’ve been while I’ve called eight times?”  
  
Bewildered, Castiel answered, “I was in the woods with my guests. Looking at the foliage.”  
  
There was a long pause and an even longer sigh. Castiel imagined Dean running his hand over his face, the way his eyes closed and his shoulders collapsed when he sighed like that--relief, frustration, and exhaustion in one deep exhale.  
  
“So, you’re not in any kind of trouble?”  
  
Castiel shook his head even though there was no one to see, his voice soft and assuring when he promised, “There’s no trouble. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”  
  
“Then why the hell did I get a weird ass message from Bobby telling me to call the guy in Vermont before he did anything else stupid?” Dean demanded.  
  
Guiltily, Castiel attempted to explain, “If Bobby is Agent Cook, then he called you because I called him looking for you. I only said I wanted to speak with you and asked him to pass along my number. Since I didn’t have yours.” Dean remained so silent Castiel could only hear the sound of his breathing and the low hum of the car radio. Castiel licked his lips nervously and continued, “I got your postcard from Alliance and I was worried.”  
  
“Jesus, Cas. I’m halfway to Vermont because you were worried about me?” Dean said with quiet disbelief. “I thought you were in danger and it turns out this is all because of some stupid shit I wrote when I was drunk?”  
  
“I’m fine, Dean. I’m sorry I caused you so much trouble.” Castiel murmured gently, tamping down the greedy flush of pleasure from the revelation that Dean cared enough to come for him, that he worried for Castiel like Castiel worried for him. He wished he knew what had happened to Dean to make him so certain that something as simple as a phone call was a harbinger of danger. Castiel sighed, “There was so much sadness in your letter. I was concerned for you.”  
  
“Let me get this straight.” Dean said, breaking off to mutter something that sounded like shut the hell up, Sam before returning to Castiel, “You just wanted to...talk? To check-up on little old me? No wonder Bobby sounded like he was choking in his message.”  
  
Castiel ignored the sarcasm because he refused to feel foolish for being concerned and because he believed that Dean likely very much needed to hear the honesty of his, “Yes. I wanted to talk to you. Yes, I wanted to know if you were alright. If there was anything I could do to help you.”  
  
Once more the line fell silent but for the rumble of an engine and the soft inhale-exhale of their breathing until Dean laughed, hollow and false. “Well, I appreciate that, Cas. But I’m fine. Awesome, in fact, now that I know nothing is trying to eat your face.”  
  
“Nothing is eating my face, Dean.” Castiel murmured. He straightened his shoulders and tried once more, “Now you know that and my number. You can call me anytime if you ever need to talk. If you need anything at all.”  
  
“That’s real sweet of you,” Dean cooed teasingly, all bravado and flippancy once again, “But the only thing I need right now is a cheeseburger and to get back on the road.”  
  
Castiel sighed and tried to hide his disappointment, “If you’re certain.”  
  
“Hell yeah, I’m certain.” Dean insisted, before he wavered, his voice turning so soft and low it was almost like a caress. “Don’t waste your time worrying about me, Cas. Take care of yourself.”  
  
The echo of the dialtone denied Castiel the chance to promise that Dean would never be a waste of time. That he didn't think Dean should punish him for caring. Castiel saved his words, saved his promises and his admonishments, filed them away with the hundred other things he had to say to Dean Fogerty. He saved the number to his contacts list, slowly typed in D-E-A-N, and wondered if the name would ever show up on his phone again. **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The postcards are from various locations used in S4-7. Carhenge is a real thing. Wikipedia teaches me so much :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A late night visit. Castiel attempts to make his case to Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There be smut in this chapter.

At first, Castiel ignored the rumble-buzz of the phone. He ignored it because it was 2:30am and he was exhausted from the ups and downs of the day and because it was rarely good news that came in the middle of the night. But when the rumble-buzz happened twice more, he reluctantly opened his eyes and flung out a hand towards his bedside table in the hopes of getting the damned thing to stop. The screen was too bright in the dark and Castiel was forced to blink until his vision cleared and his eyes stopped aching from the sudden intrusion of false light, but even when his sight no longer swam the words he saw were so unbelievable he had to read them twice.  
  
  
 **From: Dean**  
 **2:20am**  
 **you awake?**  
  
 **From: Dean**  
 **2:27am**  
 **wake up cas**  
  
 **From: Dean**  
 **2:36am**  
 **come outside. please.**  
  
Castiel moved through the darkness of his room as though walking through a dream, his heart lodged somewhere between his throat and his mouth, racing as quickly as his thoughts while he tried to find socks, shoes, and reality. As he ran down the stairs, forgetting for once to be quiet, he wondered if perhaps he should have brushed his teeth or smoothed out his hair, which was always so wild and ridiculous after he’d been sleeping, but he didn’t go back because there was always the chance that if he turned around Dean would disappear.  
  
The living room was so silent and still he could hear the hum of a car engine from beyond his front door,  his strange dream becoming more real with each step he took. Castiel didn’t look out the window for headlights, didn’t shift the curtains so he could prove to himself that there was someone waiting, didn’t turn on the porchlight to bring the Impala to life. Instead he curled his hand around the doorknob, took a deep breath and had faith that when he opened the door Dean would be there.  
  
And before the bracing air could fill his lungs, there was a voice calling to him from the darkness, a muffled shout-whisper of,  “It’s about damned time, man,” washing away the doubts Castiel had harboured.  
  
“I’m freezing my balls off out here.”  
  
“Forgive me if your new-fangled way of throwing rocks against my bedroom window didn’t wake me quickly enough for you,” Castiel answered tartly as he drifted slowly down the steps, impatient for for his eyes to adjust enough so he could catch a glimpse of Dean. He followed the sound of Dean’s laughter and the steady hum of the Impala’s engine, stumbling over his feet when his leaf covered lawn was at once bathed in two streams of light.    
  
“Real smooth, Cas.” Dean observed with too much enjoyment as Castiel righted his footing and finally laid eyes on his midnight caller, lounging against the driver’s side door with his arms crossed over his chest and his breath spilling out frost-white into the air.  
  
Castiel stilled, watched Dean for a long moment as he waited for his pulse to stop pounding and for his thoughts to quiet now that he had tangible proof that Dean was here, was alive and smirking like there wasn’t a damned thing wrong in the world. It was proof  he could touch if took two more steps and splayed his palm over Dean’s heart, proof he could taste if he pressed his lips to Dean’s and stole Dean’s breath into his lungs.    
  
Castiel stayed where he was.  
  
“What are you doing here, Dean?”  
  
Dean shrugged, as though  it wasn’t unusual at all for him to demand Castiel’s presence in the middle of the night and loom in his front yard like a shadow. Castiel gave him an impatient look and took a step closer, wrapping his arms around his chest to ward off the chill of too late night.  Dean looked at him, searched his face for a fleeting moment and then abandoned Castiel for staring at the ground, scuffing his shoes over Castiel’s lawn and murmuring,  
  
“I was already halfway here when you called, so I thought--- _What the hell? I could really go for some more of Cas’ pie, what’s a  few more hours on the road?_   And here I am.”  
  
Castiel stared at Dean, with his arrogant grin that was betrayed by tired eyes, and wished he could find the key to understanding what it was Dean really needed.  
  
“You’re always welcome, Dean,” Castiel offered with gentle earnestness, only to watch Dean’s expression tighten and his body shift, turning away from Castiel and towards the car.  
  
“Yeah, well, that’s nice,” Dean said, “But I’m pretty sure I still owe you for the last time you did us a favor, so let’s not go adding on to my debt just yet.” Dean opened the driver’s side door and flung out his arm in teasing invitation, “So, how about it, Cas? How about we balance my books?”  
  
“You want to go for a drive right now?” Castiel asked even as he walked around the Impala, fully intending to follow Dean wherever he wanted to go, even if his mind was still twisting around all of Dean’s unpredictable twists and bends.    
  
“Promised you, didn’t I?” Dean murmured softly, “I thought it might be fun for once to see what actually managing to keep one was like.”  
  
Castiel wanted to say something to take away the bitterness of what could be so sweet, but Dean was already disappearing into the Impala, leaving Castiel to stare across the hood and wish that Dean would stay still long enough for Castiel to attempt to care for him. He sighed and chased after Dean, sliding into the passenger seat and closing the door. The car was warm inside, the leather worn and soft beneath his fingers as he slid onto the bench seat. Castiel ran his hand over the dashboard, looked at the floorboards and peeked at the back seat through the rearview mirror.  
  
“It is a very nice car, Dean.”  
  
“Try not to hurt yourself there with the compliments, Cas.”  Dean shot him a sour look and revved the engine.  “My baby is awesome.”  
  
Dean shifted the car into drive and flicked on the radio, a classic baseline humming beneath Castiel’s skin that seemed to release the tension in Dean’s shoulders and open up the world beyond Anna’s Haven. The inn turned to shadow in the distance, the woods lining the winding roads and the familiar shapes of Castiel’s life passing by in a glance as the song played on and Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, keeping time with the beat. Castiel stared shamelessly, without faltering, because this version of Dean, at home and at ease in his car with moonlight on the cut of his jaw, and all that confidence and vulnerability settled into something bordering on honest, was irresistible.  
  
“Absolutely awesome,” Castiel murmured, smiling softly when Dean grinned at him with happy approval, winked and turned the radio up just a little louder. Castiel gave into the impulse to touch Dean, to ground him to this moment, reaching across the seat to clasp Dean’s shoulder, pressing his fingers through the layers of coat, shirt, and more shirt and imagined the warmth of his skin as Dean stared at him with surprise and then consideration. Castiel let Dean read what he would in the gesture, let him see what Castiel kept for Dean in his gaze and in the sincerity of his smile.  
  
Dean blinked and looked at the road ahead. Castiel left his hand on Dean’s shoulder and looked out the window and up at the stars.  
  
Twenty minutes later, they returned to  Anna’s Haven, the radio quiet again as Dean turned off the ignition and Castiel waited for Dean to give him a sign of what, exactly, he wanted to happen next. The silence had been easy when the music blared and the road was before them, but in the silence and stillness, the need to ask why Dean had come to him, to pursue whatever it was that made Dean look so hunted when he thought no one was watching, once more became an itch Castiel desperately wanted to scratch.    
  
While he considered how best to approach Dean’s apparent least favorite subject, Dean took deep swigs from a battered flask and said nothing, only hummed under his breath and cast sidelong glances at Castiel. It was unnerving and flattering, the quiet between them no longer comfortable but heavy with things unsaid, the cool air thick with the smell of cheap bourbon and the faintest hints of the cologne Dean must have put on first thing that morning in some motel room before he got a call from Agent Bobby Cook and had come running to Castiel’s front door alone, Sam left behind so Dean could drag Castiel from his bed to take a midnight drive and sit in strange silence.  
  
When the parsing and questioning and considering became too much, Castiel abandoned trying to figure out what was best to say because Dean was both a mystery and an open book, and he knew no better way than to say what was on his mind and let Dean’s cards fall as they may.  He took a deep breath and turned to Dean, the sound of soft cotton pajama pants shifting on leather startling Dean from his intense scrutiny of the inn’s darkened porch and giving it to Castiel.  
  
Unwavering, Castiel held his gaze, brushed his fingers over Dean’s wrist, and murmured, “Are you alright, Dean?”  
  
Dean exhaled slowly, the tendons of his wrist flexing beneath the gentle press of Castiel’s fingers as he shook his head and grinned flippantly, “I keep telling you I’m fine, man.”  
  
Castiel dropped his hand. “Are you sure?”  
  
“I’d say I was freaking fantastic, but there is one thing that’s bothering me.”  
  
“What is it, Dean?” Castiel asked, though he suspected Dean was running from him once more, leading him down another path of distraction.  
  
“Its really damned cold out here.” Dean said as his  gaze flicked away, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel for a quick one-two beat before he shot Castiel the kind of look that was rife with so much dangerous intent that Castiel licked his lips in anticipation. Dean smiled, his voice rough and hot when he leaned across the console and murmured, “So, you gonna invite me inside or what?”  
  
Castiel closed his eyes, laughed a little under his breath and even though he knew this was the probably nothing more than the other half of _sex and booze_ , of Dean’s prescription for avoidance, Dean was so close and Castiel couldn’t forget the way he’d looked when they’d been driving or the postcards on his fridge or how kind he’d been that morning in his kitchen. He was only human and Dean had come to him and Castiel thought that if he said yes, if he let Dean through his door and into his bed, he could ask Dean to stay, show him he had a place he would be wanted.  
  
He opened his eyes and smiled. “Do you want me to?”  
  
“Hell yes,” Dean answered in the seconds before his hand was curled around the back of Castiel’s neck, and there were five cold fingers caressing his throat and pulling him across the inches that divided his smile from Dean’s grin.  
  
Castiel kissed the corner of Dean’s lips and whispered, “Dean. Do you want to come up?”  
  
~~  
  
It surprised Castiel, a little, how Dean kissed--slow and searching, like he wanted to figure out everything that made Castiel sigh into his mouth and collide against his chest while they stumbled up the stairs to Castiel’s bedroom. He’d imagined that Dean would be impatient, demanding attention and kissing Castiel into ready submission, but when he stopped to let Dean slip his tongue between his lips and push his knee between his legs, Castiel realized he should have always known that Dean would be this way--gentle hands and needy lips, taking and giving all at once.  
  
  
He could feel the press of Dean’s flask against his thigh while they kissed, still pressed up against the bedroom door and laughing from the ridiculous thrill of trying to stay quiet because Castiel had an inn full of guests and it was 3:15am. He could feel the stubble of Dean’s beyond five o’clock shadow chafing against his own unshaven cheeks and he hoped that in the morning his face would show the red, rough, marks of a night well spent. He sucked Dean’s lip into his mouth and worried it with his teeth, swallowing Dean’s rough moan and hoped that Dean, too, would be branded, that he would carry the shape of Castiel’s desire and devotion with him on his skin.  
  
Dean pushed him onto the bed and crawled between the ready spread of his legs , bending his head to press the advantages he’d so quickly discovered, kissing Castiel behind the ear and running his thumb down the vulnerable dip of his throat to rest at the flutter of his pulse as though he wanted to feel just how alive and awake Castiel was when Dean touched him and looked at him like he didn’t have anywhere else on earth to be. Castiel gave into the temptation to kiss Dean’s half-smirk and tangle his fingers in Dean’s hair, holding him in place and arching into the heavy press of Dean’s body so he could drag his thigh against Dean’s cock and earn another groan.  
  
Dean’s hand slipped beneath his shirt and Castiel shivered, gasped into their messy kiss.  
  
“What’s up?” Dean whispered against his lips, fingers splayed over his stomach and rubbing soothing circles over the sharp bones of his hips.  
  
“Nothing.” Castiel kissed Dean a chaste sweet thing that belied that dirty roll of his hips and the long slow stroke of his hand down Dean’s back to rest on the curve of his ass. “Your hands are cold.”  
  
The fingers on the drawstring of his pants started to move away.  Castiel laughed and shifted until Dean’s palm was resting on the stretched cotton that covered his cock, pushing into the touch and squeezing Dean’s ass with his hand.  
  
“I didn’t say you should stop.”  
  
“Then quit bitching and hold still.” Dean scoffed into the curve of his neck, kissing up the length of his throat and the jut of his chin, eyes hooded and smile happy as his hand disappeared beneath Castiel’s pants and cupped his half-hard cock.  
  
Castiel arched into the touch and pulled Dean closer, sucking on his earlobe and muttering, “You can hardly expect me to stay still when you’re doing that.”  
  
“Yeah?” Dean said smugly, curling his fingers around Castiel’s cock and stroking lazily.  
  
Castiel glared at him teasingly, licked the kiss-bitten swell of his lips and murmured, “What do you want to hear, Dean? Do you want me to tell you that I think you’re awesome?”  
  
“It'd be a start. But really, Cas, we’ve got to work on your sweet talk.” Dean winked and gave him a filthy kiss, all hunger and no finesse, wet and deep like the push-pull of his hand around Castiel’s cock stroking him until he was hard and slick between Dean’s fingers.  
  
Castiel smothered his laugh in the kiss, gave himself over to the slide of Dean’s tongue and slow, steady strokes of his hand. Dean kissed generously and even sweetly, sucking on Castiel’s bottom lip and murmuring his name, touched his cock with one hand and held Castiel’s wrist above his head with the other, lacing their fingers together like this was a lovely sin they’d committed a thousand times before. In the haze of exhaustion and desire, Castiel wished that they had taken the time to get undressed but hoped that he would have another chance to press his naked skin against the entirety of Dean.  
  
“Come on, Cas,” Dean cajoled , voice soft and hot  in his ear, “Let me see how good it is for you.”  
  
Castiel pushed a hand between their bodies and shoved at his pants until he could see his cock sliding between the circle of Dean’s fingers. He watched Dean watch him arch into his touch,  watched Dean lick his lips at the sight of Castiel’s cock. He watched Dean twist his wrist and brush his thumb over the head to spread the wetness that was because of him--for him--and Castiel thought it would have been nice to have enough breath left in his lungs to whisper to Dean how he wanted to strip Dean bare and come on his chest, on his neck, on his face.  
  
Dean smirked at him, licked the seam of his lips and kissed him like he knew what was on Castiel’s mind. Castiel arched into the sudden roughness of Dean’s strokes and wondered if there would ever be a time when Dean would want to read between the lines and believe that Castiel cared.  He came with a moan that disappeared into Dean’s kiss, spilling hot and thick over Dean’s fingers and onto his stomach, his legs trembling and his thoughts caught on an endless loop of _Dean, Dean, Dean_.  
  
“So, did it feel as awesome as it looked?” Dean asked as he cleaned his hand on Castiel’s bedspread and favored him with an expectant and smug grin that Castiel both adored and wanted to wipe off his face.  
  
“Shut-up, Dean,” Castiel commanded breathlessly, summoning the energy to shove Dean onto his back and kiss him until there were greedy little noises echoing off his bedroom room walls and Dean’s was pushing his cock insistently against Castiel’s hip, the denim rough against his still sensitive skin. Castiel bit Dean’s lip as he pulled away, licked the taut lines of his throat and sucked beneath his jaw, taking selfish pleasure in the thought that not even a collared shirt could keep the faint pink mark entirely covered.  
  
“Shutting up,” Dean groaned, fingers twisting in Castiel’s hair as Castiel slid down the firm planes of Dean’s chest and hitched up his shirt so he could run his tongue down the ridges of Dean’s hips and kiss the tremble of his stomach.  
  
“Mmhmmm,” Castiel hummed over the strain of Dean’s cock while he held Dean’s gaze and unzipped his jeans. He parted his lips over the dark, wet stain on Dean’s boxers and exhaled, let Dean see him lick his lips and let Dean hear him sigh.  
  
“Jesus Christ, Cas.” Dean whispered, his eyes falling shut when Castiel pushed down his boxers and took the head of his cock into his mouth.  
  
Castiel kept his eyes open, kept his hands on Dean’s thighs and welcomed the slow push of Dean’s cock between his lips and over his tongue, tasting the bitter tang of salt and desire in his throat as he took him deep. He soothed the jerk of Dean’s hips with the press of his fingers, guided Dean with the slow, steady dip rhythm of his mouth sliding up and down Dean’s cock until the muscles beneath his hands were twitching and Dean was muttering obscene and hushed prayers.  
  
“Fuck, Cas. Please. Just like that. Come on. Just a little more, Cas. I’m begging you.”  
  
Castiel hummed, wrapped his hand around Dean’s cock and sucked him a little harder, a little faster, curled his tongue around the head and hollowed his cheeks as the fingers in his hair pulled so tightly it was almost painful. Dean’s eyes flew open and Castiel watched him, hazy with lust, cheeks flushed and lips stung red from too much kissing, half-dressed but totally undone. Dean held his gaze, stared at him when Castiel kissed the tip of his cock and then took him inch by inch, took him so deeply Castiel knew his voice would be ruined and rough the next time he spoke.  
  
Dean gave up his hold on Castiel’s hair, stroked his face with a shaking hand  and then collapsed against the pillows, hips jerking and fingers clenched in the sheets and came. Castiel pinned his hips to the bed and swallowed, having Dean come in his mouth and down his throat because he didn’t want to look away from the sight of Dean biting his lip and letting go of his desperately clung to control.  
  
Gently, Castiel tucked Dean back into his clothes and then crawled up the bed, stroking the hair from Dean’s forehead and kissing him through lingering pleasure until Dean’s arm wound around his waist and tugged him against his side.  
  
“Man, I needed that,” Dean said, laughing as he pushed his face into Castiel’s neck and stretched lazily against him. “I’m really damned glad I managed to get you out of bed.”  
  
“I’ll always try to answer when you call, Dean,” Castiel promised quietly, sidestepping the Dean’s obvious desire for levity. Dean fell quiet but tangled their legs together, rubbing his socked foot up and down Castiel’s thigh. Castiel threaded his fingers through Dean’s hair and considered, wondered what else Dean would let himself need beyond alcohol and sex. He kissed the crown of Dean’s head and murmured, “I won’t ask what happened in Alliance or what your job demands you endure, but I will ask again if you’re alright. If there’s anything I can do to help.”  
  
Dean sighed and Castiel could feel the frustration rush hot over the skin of his throat. “Why the hell do you care so much?”

  
Castiel tipped Dean’s face so he could look him in the eyes when he stated the obvious. “Because I care about you. Is that so hard to believe?”  
  
“Its hard for me to believe that’s a good use of your time, Cas. I’m not someone you should be caring about.” Dean stiffened and looked away, dropping his hands from Castiel’s waist and rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “You shouldn’t be worrying about me or my job when you’ve got a life of your own that’s got fuck all to do with me.”  
  
“Shouldn’t it be my choice as to what I do with my time and attention, let alone my life?” Castiel sighed and curled his body around the shape of Dean’s, leaving inches he loathed between their skin because he knew that this was distance Dean wasn’t willing to surrender.  
  
“Dude, all I’m saying is you should choose better,” Dean said softly, before closing his eyes and faking a smile, forcing the subject to a close. “Even if I am fucking awesome.”  
  
“Somehow your argument fails to persuade me.” Castiel murmured reluctantly, weary from the exhilaration of Dean and sex and Dean and avoidance. He leaned over to kiss Dean, whispered, “Sleep. In the morning I’ll make you a pie and you can tell me all about your fucking awesome.” He wrinkled his nose and made finger quotes around "fucking awesome," and allowed Dean to distract him with a kiss.   
  
Dean’s smile turned small and real as they kissed, but in the morning, when the sun came too bright and too early, Dean had gone, leaving a postcard from Sioux Falls on his pillow that answered not a single one of Castiel’s thousand questions.  
  
 _Cas-_  
  
 _We’re just going to have to agree to disagree on this one._  
  
 _Take care of yourself._  
  
 _Dean._  
  
Disappointed, stung, but not entirely surprised, Castiel put the postcard on the fridge with the rest of his map of Dean and Sam, ready to have faith that someday Dean would return and Castiel would prove his point over and over again until Dean was ready to listen.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so much longer than others--life has been very busy, but I hope to be slightly faster with the next. I am also (sort of) sorry that this continues growing longer and longer, the story has taken on a bigger life than I had originally planned!
> 
> I do hope you continue to enjoy and thanks so much for the wonderful feedback! I love it all! 
> 
> Note--I also imagine Dean is not someone who takes the time/effort to use proper punctuation and grammar in his texting...so, apologies if that section is difficult to read.

A month later and the postcard map remained unchanged with no new additions having come to Castiel’s mailbox in the days leading up to Thanksgiving. Castiel received only the first inches of snow and a steady stream of guests chasing the last remnants of fall color before everything was made crisp, white, and still. A full house kept his days busy enough that Castiel had only the moments before sleep to remember Dean’s unexpected appearance and sadly not-unexpected disappearance. And though he often found that he wanted to strangle Dean for managing to be excellent at both kissing and avoidance, Castiel still trusted that Dean wasn’t done with him entirely, not by a long shot.   
  
Even if he occasionally doubted his sanity in believing so.   
  
When Balthazar pressed him over Thanksgiving dinner as to why he persisted in his “foolish and pointless attachment to the looker with the magic cock and the lack of common decency,” Castiel held his ground and calmly informed his interfering friend that he and Dean shared a “profound bond.”  Castiel managed to keep up the act until the bourbon came out with Gabriel’s sinful pecan pie and he confessed that the real reason he suspected Dean was still carrying at least a small torch for Castiel and his innumerable charms.   
  
Granted, a drunken phone call in the middle of the night was considerably less romantic than a midnight drive through the forest, but Castiel was shrewd enough to appreciate that when Dean’s defenses were down, Dean’s thoughts had turned to him. It hadn’t been much more than a garbled hello, a whiskey-rough murmur of his name followed by the slurred demand to know what Castiel was wearing, what he was doing, and then a rushed confession that Dean wanted to be wearing nothing and doing Cas. Still, in the two minutes before alcohol and exhaustion won out over endearing pathetic attempts at suave and Dean began to snore softly in his ear, Castiel heard the honesty in Dean’s whispered,   
  
_“Sorry, Cas, I just needed to know you were alright.”_  
  
 _“I’m fine, Dean,” Cas had said, holding the phone to his ear and pulling the covers over his head as though he could trap Dean’s voice and keep him near. “Are you alright?”_  
  
 _“What? You can’t tell that I’m awesome?” Dean had slurred while Castiel had frowned, rolled his eyes and then remembered that Dean couldn’t see him.  He heard the rustle of sheets with the familiar rasp of Dean’s dismissal, “Don’t worry about me.”_   
  
The line had gone quiet but for the in-and-out of Dean’s alcohol-induced slumber before Castiel could remind Dean once more that he had the free will to do whatever he wanted with his care and concern. Alone beneath the heavy weight of his comforter, he’d listened to Dean breathe until his heartbeat had slowed and his frustrated affection had tempered enough for him to steal back what little sleep remained before another breakfast needed to be prepared.   
  
In the morning, gritty-eyed but happy as he had stared at his makeshift map of America’s small-towns and no-name motels, Castiel knew that he hadn’t been wrong for believing that Dean felt something for him, thought of him as Castiel thought of Dean, that Dean wanted him when he wasn’t too busy running from whatever made him so wary. Then and there, with the snow falling outside the kitchen window, Castiel had reached for the eggs and milk, and decided that he would give Dean until the new year to come to him before he stopped waiting and went to Dean.   
  
Balthazar told him he was an idiot, Gabriel thought his plan lacked a certain pizzazz, but Castiel thought that Anna would have approved, would have thought it was very Castiel of Castiel to indulge someone up until a point before taking matters into his own hands. Regardless of how foolhardy it may have been (or boring, if one took Gabriel’s perspective), the plan brought Castiel a measure of peaceful certainty that even if there was nothing fated about him and Dean, he could do everything in his power to make sure they would meet again and he would have Dean hear him out instead of skulking off intot he night   
  
And even though he had no idea _how_ exactly he would find Dean if Dean didn’t find him, Castiel prepared Dean for the inevitable by using what little resources he had--namely learning to use his cell phone well enough to send the occasional text message. He thought of the messages as his own little postcards to be sent off into the ether without any real expectation of an answer, nothing more than a few words to assuage Dean’s no longer secret need to know that Castiel was “alright.”   
  
**11/21/XX**  
  
 _Hello, Dean._   
  
**11/24/XX**  
  
 _It snowed again this afternoon, but I don’t think it will last. Two winters here has taught me too much about snow and this is the sort that will be beautiful for a day before melting and leaving everything a muddy mess._   
  
**11/27/XX**  
  
 _Have you ever folded so many towels and washed so many dishes your hands went stiff? When I see Anna again I am going to scold her for leaving me to do all this dirty work._   
  
**11/28/XX**  
  
 _I enjoy this time of year when it is once again appropriate to drink copius amounts of hot cider with the excuse that cider is good for getting warm._  
  
 **11/28/XX**  
  
 _I make very good cider. Mrs. Callaghan from Virginia has told me so repeatedly.  She’s certainly consumed enough of it that it must be true._  
  
For Dean, he drew his own map with the landmarks of daily life and the occasional tease because Castiel didn’t think he should always make it so easy for Dean.   
  
**12/1/XX**   
  
_A very well meaning guest has saddled me with three pounds of “Vermont’s most delicious cherries.” I don’t know how delicious cherries can be in December, but I feel obligated to make good use of the gift._   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _In case you couldn’t guess, I am going to make pie with the cherries, Dean._   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _My apple pie is rumored to be even better than my cider._   
  
**12/1/XX**   
  
_Perhaps I underestimated the quality of those cherries because that was one awesome pie._   
  
And then, finally, without warning but once more without surprise, Dean broke his silence and proved true all of Castiel’s suspicions that his messages were read, remembered, and perhaps even wanted. The messages came through as he was rinsing the dishes and humming under his breath to the Christmas music that had begun its steady domination of the radio waves, buzzing in his pocket like tiny, hard-won victories.   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _dude ur killing me_

_enough with the pie_   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _also loser u don’t need to capitalize and spell shit out in txt msgs_   
  
Castiel allowed himself the thrill of success before continuing with his chores, leaving Dean without a reply until his kitchen was sparkling and he could take the time to savor sitting down and slowly, deliberately typing out his reply, making certain to include proper punctuation because there was something gratifying about defying Dean's expectations of him.   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _Hello, Dean._   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _hello yourself cas_  
 _doing good_  
  
Castiel couldn’t be certain if he was meant to understand “doing good” as a question or a declaration of Dean’s own well-being, but he hedged his bets on his limited yet deep knowledge of Dean’s inability to discuss his feelings except under extreme duress or the influence of alcohol.   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _I’m well. Full from too much cider and pie. How are you?_  
  
 **12/1/XX**  
  
 _fine but u gotta stop w/ the pie asshole_   
  
Castiel smiled and helped himself to another cup of cider, spiking it with rum because he wanted something to match the slow burning warmth of affection and temptation.   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _So bossy, Dean._   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _fuck u_  
 _am not_  
  
 **12/1/XX**  
  
 _Stop with the pie. Don’t use proper grammar while texting. Don’t worry about you._   
  
Castiel barely managed to restrain himself from adding, “Don’t care about you,” to his list of teasing complaints, deciding to be generous and leave Dean the tiniest amount of personal space in which to feel safe.   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _yeah well its all good advice_   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _Bossy AND a know-it-all. Charming._   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _rude_   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _Don’t pout. I know you like telling me what to do._   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _yeah ok maybe ;)_  
  
Castiel pictured Dean’s smile, that suggestive little curve of his mouth when he thought he was about to get his way.  Desire curled in his stomach and in that moment Castiel thought he would have moved Heaven and Earth to have Dean in his kitchen with him, close enough to touch and taste, near enough to persuade.    
  
 **12/1/XX**  
  
 _Your wish is my command..._  
  
 **12/1/XX**  
  
 _not gonna lie thats really hot. u should tell me more_  
 _be my genie in a bottle cas. i’ll rub u the right way_  
  
Castiel laughed faintly, rubbed his hand over his face and considered playing the game to its natural conclusion, indulging in this flirtation, letting it escalate and taking the easy pleasure Dean offered with so little hesitation compared to any and everything else Castiel wanted from him. Sex, as fantastic as it had been even when he’d been exhausted and caught unawares, was never going to be enough, and Castiel was no longer interested in settling when he could remember how soft and sweet Dean had been in the afterglow.   
  
He considered his response, called upon all the skills he’d learned at the hands of his father and brothers, remembered the delicate art of negotiating complex issues with a challenging...client.  Flatter, flirt, pique the interest and string the recalcitrant individual long enough to lull them into a state of curiosity and complacency so that when the deal is finally done, they barely realized they’ve been had for a song.   
  
Castiel only hoped that he could be forgiven for using such politicking to convince Dean he was well worthy of time, attention, and affection.   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _Of that I have no doubt. But what if I know better than you? What if you should be following my orders?_  
  
 **12/1/XX**  
  
 _buddy i cld write a novel about all the shit i kno better than u_   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _Because you’re that awesome?_   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _bingo. so u best do what i say._   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _Very well. I’ll answer your beck and call.  Do almost everything you ask._   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _almost everything? ;) ;) like even the real freaky stuff?_  
  
Castiel quelled the urge to roll his eyes because once again Dean wasn’t present to actually witness his fond exasperation--though he filed away the question of what, exactly, Dean qualified as “real freaky stuff” for another time when there could perhaps be a more hands-on demonstration.  
  
 **12/1/XX**  
  
 _Sure, like even some real freaky stuff. I’ll trust your “awesome” judgement on all but one thing._   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _this i gotta hear_   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _I’m not telling. At least not yet._  
  
 **12/1/XX**  
  
 _cmon i can handle it_

_ive seen it all and done it all u cant shock me._   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _So modest._   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _ur really busting my balls tonite._  
 _u gonna tell me or what_  
  
 **12/1/XX**  
  
 _Sorry, but no :)_   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _dont :) me u ass. killing me with the suspense here_  
  
 **12/1/XX**  
  
 _A little mystery never hurt anyone, Dean._   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _ha shows what u know. nothing. thats what._  
 _but whatever keep your secrets. ill get it out of u one day._   
  
Check and mate. Castiel smiled and touched his finger to the glow of the phone’s scratched little screen, wondering if Dean knew how much he gave away in the margins of all the half-truths he told. He wondered what mysteries had caused hurt and if they were the same remembered aches and pains that kept Dean always at arm’s length.   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _One day, perhaps. If you’re very good._   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _im always good_   
  
Castiel resisted the urge to remind Dean that the last talent he’d shared was the ability to disappear in the middle of the night. He was, however, not above taking a little of the wind out of Dean’s puffed up sails.   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _But perhaps not as good as you think._   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _not cool man_  
 _fine if ur not going to tell me dirty secrets, im taking my awesome and going to bed._   
  
Castiel closed his eyes and imagined Dean’s pout, thought about what it would be like to kiss him until he was smug and smiling again.   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _Good idea, beauty rest is important._ _You could certainly benefit from it._  
  
 **12/1/XX**  
  
 _fuck u im too pretty for beauty rest_   
  
His laughter echoed in the empty kitchen, filling the space where Dean could have been. He said a prayer in the hopes that he had not been wrong in how he’d hunted Dean, given even just a little chase after a man who Castiel knew likely had too much experience in evasion.   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 _Sleep well, Dean. I’ll talk to you soon._   
  
In the ensuing silence, Castiel polished off his cider, wrapped the single remaining piece of pie, and made his way to his bedroom. He left the phone where it couldn’t taunt him while he brushed his teeth and washed his face, lingering in the bathroom for far too long to be anything other than avoidance before turning off the lights and crawling between too cold sheets. In the darkness, he breathed and waited so long that his thoughts had begun to blur in that space between waking and sleep. And when the rattle-buzz of a phone on wood stirred him from his almost-sleep, Castiel believed he could not be faulted for believing that perhaps he had only dreamed what he read, and would re-read in the morning, when everything was bright, crisp, and real and there was no refuting that Castiel had played his cards right and predicted Dean’s next move.   
  
**12/1/XX**  
  
 **yeah talk 2 u soon**  
  
~~  
  
What Castiel could not have predicted was that the next time his phone rang and flashed “Dean,” he would pick up the phone to find Sam’s voice in his ear telling him that Dean had been hurt and was in the hospital.   
  
Asking for Cas. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are the best. Thanks for enduring the cliffhanger. We're getting somewhere, I promise!

“I’m very sorry, sir, but I’m not at liberty to discuss Mr. Fogerty’s condition with you.”  
  
Castiel bit his tongue to keep from lashing out at the nurse who was only doing his job and following all the rules and regulations Castiel had been raised to so appreciate. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, staring down the hallways of the small county hospital that had hidden Dean away somewhere he wasn’t allowed to visit because Castiel wasn’t family.  In his frustration at being denied Dean’s room number or even to be told whether or not Dean was still breathing, Castiel had wanted to shout that he wasn’t anything, really, to Dean but the man who’d given him a place to stay and tried to give him a reason to keep coming back. Nothing at all but the man who’d canceled a weekend’s worth of reservations to drive six hours through the snows of Vermont to the hills of Pennsylvania because Dean had called for him.  
  
“Cas! You made it.”  
  
Castiel jumped at the sudden weight on his shoulder, turning around to find Sam looming over him with a purple bruise spread beneath his eye and a white bandage plastered over his forearm.    
  
Castiel clutched at the hand digging into his shoulder, all of the anxiety and uncertainty he carried with him through the silent, tense hours of his journey spilling out at once.  “Sam! What happened? Are you alright? Is Dean alright? They won’t tell me anything.”  
  
“Cas, Cas. Calm down,” Sam said gently, leading Castiel away from the reception desk and down a quiet hallway. Castiel tried to calm himself, taking comfort from Sam’s weary but reassuring smile, gladdened that he could find no trace of tragedy in the tired circles beneath his eyes. Sam slumped against the wall and exhaled noisily. “Dean’s going to be fine. He lost a lot of blood and there was some serious concern about some fractured ribs, but he’s already awake and being annoying.”  
  
Castiel joined Sam against the wall, relief heavy in his bones as he murmured, “Thank God. Your call was so vague and I was so worried. “  
  
“Sorry about that. Force of habit,  I guess.” Sam said, rubbing his hand over his bandaged arm.  
  
Castiel shook his head and dredged uo a smile, “You can’t imagine the scenarios I’d envisioned. A gunman. A knife fight with the mob. Kidnapped by foreign agents and tortured for information. I hope that I was wrong on all counts.”  
  
Sam laughed, dry and brittle, “I’ll leave it up to Dean to tell you what he can, so I’ll just say that the truth is definitely stranger than fiction.”  
  
Castiel searched Sam’s face, tried to find hints of what had happened in his weary and guarded smile. “And you? Are you alright?”  
  
“I’m fine, Cas.” Sam assured, pushing off the wall and gesturing towards a door with a little card marked _D. Fogerty_. Sam’s gaze flitted restlessly between the door and Castiel. “And so is he, but, uh, there’s probably something you should know before you go in there.”  
  
“Yes?” Castiel asked, wary of Sam’s sudden shiftiness.  
  
Sam tried on a smile, “So you know how I said Dean was asking for you?”    
  
“Yes, I recall the reason I dropped everything.” Castiel crossed his arms over his chest and glared until Sam’s smile disappeared.  
  
“And he did!” Sam held up his hands and backed away.  “He absolutely was asking for you, kept saying your name and insisting that you needed to be here. He, uh, was just on a lot of morphine at the time.”  
  
Castiel blinked and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you trying to warn me that there’s a fair chance Dean may not remember asking for me at all?”  
  
“Knowing Dean, I’d say its a decent bet he’ll pretend he doesn’t even if he does,” Sam admitted, shaking his head.  
  
Castiel took a deep breath, searching within his soul for the equanimity not to strangle Sam. Or Dean. He leveled Sam with a hard stare. “And regardless of this, you still decided to call me?”  
  
“Well, I also know that even though he might be an ass and act like he’s allergic to feelings, this is the first time Dean’s ever asked for anyone who wasn’t me or Bobby when he was stoned out of his mind on narcotics. And it wasn’t just some mumbled word that might have been Cas. It was your name, over and over, like if he said it often enough you’d appear. “ Sam smiled, gave a long slow roll of his shoulders and continued lobbing bombshells, “So, I figured--what the hell--if Cas matters enough to register with Dean on the good drugs, Dean will be happy to see him. Even if he pitches a bitch fit later because I interfered with his policy of pretending not to give a crap. ”  
  
“Does Dean often require narcotics?” Castiel asked dazedly, trying and failing to wrap his mind around all that Sam had so casually revealed, like it was nothing at all to imply that maybe, perhaps more than maybe, Castiel mattered to Dean.  
  
Sam laughed, eyebrows creeping up his forehead, “Um, yeah, Cas, sometimes we both do. One of the hazards of the job, I guess. But that’s not really the point, is it?”  
  
“Of course. You’re right.” Castiel breathed, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. “Shall I go in? See how the patient is doing?”  
  
“Well, I don’t think you drove from Vermont to hang out in the hallway with me.” Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and knocked his arm against Cas’ shoulder.  
  
“I would you know,” Cas blurted, catching Sam’s uninjured wrist between his fingers. Sam gave him a bemused smile. “I would drive from Vermont for you, too.”  
  
“I appreciate that, Cas. I can see why Dean likes you,” Sam said softly, before smirking and jerking his head in the direction of Dean’s room, “Though I can’t say I see why you like him.”  
  
“He has his charms.” Castiel shrugged and returned Sam’s grin.  
  
“Sure, if you find arrogance, bossiness, and emotional constipation charming,” Sam snorted, “But, hey, to each his own. Just do me a favor, will you?”  
  
“Anything,” Castiel promised through his laughter, the fear and anxiety that had carried him from Vermont to Pennsylvania dissipating in the wake of Sam’s endearingly accurate description of his beleaguered partner. It wouldn’t be possible to tease so easily if Dean were in still in any danger of shuffling off the mortal coil.  
  
“Try and convince him to take it easy. He’s already badgered the doctor into releasing him this later afternoon, but the guy could use another night or two off the job.”  
  
“I’ll do my very best,” Castiel said solemnly, taking a deep breath and crossing the hallway to Dean’s door, his fingers curled hesitantly on the knob as Sam gave him a wide smile of thanks and a parting gift.  
  
“You got Dean to write postcards. I’m pretty sold on your powers of persuasion, Cas. Just don’t ever go into any detail on the particular methods of persuasion, okay?”  
  
“I’ll do my very best,” Castiel repeated, watching Sam drift down the hall and leaving him alone with the prospect of a vulnerable and injured Dean who very likely wasn’t expecting to see him.  
  
His suspicion was confirmed as soon as he opened the door to catch Dean in the act of attempting to sneak out of the bed while pulling the I.V. from his wrist.  
  
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Castiel demanded in the same instant that Dean yelped, tumbled over the side of the bed and shouted,  
  
“What the fuck, Cas! What the hell are you doing here?”  
  
“Apparently catching you in an act of great stupidity.” Castiel hurried to Dean’s side, shaking his head as he hauled him from the floor and once more into the bed where he belonged, blithely ignoring Dean’s struggle. “Don’t even think about trying to get up again.”  
  
Dean blinked, apparently too stunned to do more than cross his arms over his chest and flick his gaze between the IV drip and Castiel.  
  
Castiel rolled his eyes and dropped into the chair next to the bed. “I assure you I am not a drug-induced hallucination, Dean.”  
  
“Well, I can’t think of any other explanation for how the hell you ended up in my hospital room,” Dean grumbled, scratching at the tape that covered the needle pressed inside the top of his hand.  
  
“See? I’m real enough.” Castiel stilled his fidgeting with a soft touch, pinning Dean’s restless hand with his own.  Dean stared at the loose tangle of their fingers. Castiel squeezed gently and sighed, “And though morphine may have played a part, Sam’s the reason I’m here. He called me last night. He thought you might appreciate my company.”  
  
“Of course he did, the little shit.” Dean muttered under his breath and looked away, though his hand remained cool and clammy beneath Castiel’s. Castiel decided it was worth it to leave Dean's part in the story out, to spare him the opportunity to deny any momentary weakness, to grant Dean the space he likely didn't even realize he needed to be able to hold Castiel's hand and say, “Sorry, man, sometimes Samantha gets these ideas in his head.”  
  
“I’m glad that he did,” Castiel insisted, reaching across the expanse of the bed to cup Dean’s cheek.  Dean met his gaze with a defiant, guarded stare. Castiel stared in return, took the opportunity to inspect the pallor of his skin and the angry, blue and black bruise that crept from beneath the bandage on his neck that covered the wound that made Castiel irrationally angry with a world that would demand blood and pain from Dean. He let his fingers drift down Dean’s jaw to rest on the bandage that rested over the thready beating of Dean’s pulse, stroking once, twice, before giving up the touch with a quiet sigh. “I needed and still need to know that you are alright.”  
  
“I’m fine, Cas.” Dean turned his hand over so they were pressed palm to palm. “Its not like this is my first trip to the rodeo. Hell, this is nothing.” Castiel’s eyes widened, his heart doing a stutter-step at the thought that Dean had been through enough to make blood loss and bruised ribs a cause for flippancy.  Dean must have read the worry written all over his face, groaning loudly, “Jesus, don’t look at me like that. This is exactly why I don’t want anyone worrying about me.”  
  
“Dean.” Castiel murmured, dropping his gaze to the rumpled sheets and rubbing his thumb across Dean’s palm to try and sooth away his panicked, trapped look of upset as he pushed very, very gently against the walls of Dean’s heart. “What’s the matter? Do you think you are so unworthy of worry? Of care?” Dean tried to pull his hand free, but Castiel held fast. “I give it to you freely.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t.” Dean said roughly, as though the familiar words had been raked over the coals of all the emotion Dean tried to keep Castiel from seeing in the wistful, wanting curve of his lips and the disbelief in his eyes.  
  
“Don’t tell me what to do, Dean,” Castiel whispered, leaning forward to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.  
  
“You’re a stubborn bastard, you know.” Dean said, turning ever so slightly into the kiss and allowing Castiel to laugh against his lips and say,  
  
“I think that’s a little bit of the pot calling the kettle black.”  
  
Dean scoffed, “Whatever, man. I’m awesome. Pot, kettle, or otherwise. You’re just a pain in my ass.”  
  
“Are you always this charming or does massive hemorrhaging really bring out your best qualities?” Castiel laughed and settled back into his seat, gratified by the way Dean’s gaze dropped to his lips like maybe he wasn’t quite done being kissed.  
  
“Dude, I’m trapped in the hospital with a chunk of my throat missing and Princess Sammy refusing to bring me a cheeseburger.” Dean groused, once more fiddling with his IV and eying the door.  
  
“A chunk of your throat?’ Castiel asked with horrified wonder, shifting closer without thought as if he could protect Dean from some unnamed and unknown threat. “What happened to you?”  
  
“Cas, I’m fine. Just a bad day on the job,” Dean said carelessly, willfully oblivious to Castiel’s concern.  
  
“And what, exactly, constitutes a bad day on the job?” Castiel pressed, crowding into Dean’s space and resisting the urge to crawl on the bed and cover him with his body, pin him in place until he stopped avoiding the truth.  
  
“Something with a hard-on for vengeance that wants a pound of my flesh,” Dean joked, pointing at his neck and continuing to pretend as though none of this was supposed to matter. Castiel shook his head and Dean sighed, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling and muttering, “Christ. I’m in one piece and as soon as I’m free of this hellhole I’m going to gank the son-of-a-bitch who did this to me and Sammy, so can we please skip show and tell?”  
  
“No,” Castiel said, denying Dean his easy out and shuffling nearer to rest his head on Dean’s shoulder, brushing his fingers over his hidden hurts. Dean shivered and Castiel felt a hand creep up to tangle in his hair. Castiel kissed his collarbone, rubbed his nose against Dean’s stubbled jaw, murmured, “Tell me.”  
  
“Damn it, Cas,” Dean sighed, chest heaving in frustration beneath the splay of Castiel’s hand. “I don’t want you anywhere near any of the shit I deal with. Trust me, you’re better off not knowing.”  
  
“I can handle it.” Castiel promised, smoothing his palm down chest.  
  
Dean caught his hand, stilled his touch and with three words broke all Castiel’s resolve to push, push, push until there was nowhere left for Dean to hide.  
  
“Maybe I can’t.”  
  
“Dean.” Castiel said softly, rendered speechless by the pained honesty in Dean’s voice, the sort of heavy, resigned tone that could only be learned through profound loss. It was a tone he knew all too well, remembered from the weeks and months after Anna, when his heart had jumped every time the phone rang or he heard the screech of car tires. It was enough to dampen the fever of all his best intentions to tell Dean he could be trusted with his secrets. Castiel closed his eyes and considered that perhaps in this moment, with such a bittersweet confession of care and fear, Dean was asking to be trusted.  Castiel lifted his head from Dean’s shoulder to kiss Dean’s forehead and wonder aloud, “What am I supposed to do with you?”  
  
“Oh, now you want me to tell you what to do?” Dean teased weakly, relief and lingering tension both evident in his voice. He carded his fingers through Castiel’s hair. “If I thought you’d listen to me, I’d tell you to go home to Vermont and forget you ever knew my name.”  
  
“But you know I won’t.”  
  
“Because you’re a stubborn little shit.”  
  
“As previously established, yes,” Castiel said with a gentle smile, letting Dean muss his hair and take refuge in their banter.    
  
“Then how about we make a deal? You take my word for it that there’s nothing good to know about that part of my life and when we get the hell out of here, I’ll make it up to you.”  
  
“Make it up to me?” Castiel returned Dean’s flirtation, choosing to trust Dean in the hopes that Dean would trust him in return with a piece of his heart, if not his secrets.  
  
Dean shifted on the bed, leering as he patted the sliver of space beside him. “I’d make it up to you right now if my ribs didn’t hurt like a bitch and I didn’t want to fall asleep every ten minutes.”  
  
“You also smell like a lovely combination of antiseptic and sweat.” Castiel wrinkled his nose before sighing dramatically and gingerly climbing into the bed, wrapping one arm around Dean’s waist and resting his head over the steady thump of Dean’s heart.  
  
“You volunteering to give me a sponge bath? Play a little naughty nurse?”  
  
Castiel reached up to tug on Dean’s ear, informing him primly, “I’m supposed to make sure you rest. No naughty business while you’re hooked up to various drips and machines.”  
  
“Great, even more reason to hate this damned place,” Dean groused before yawning loudly and slumping on his pillows, taking Castiel with him. “Rain check on the sponge bath?”  
  
“Why not?” Castiel laughed, stroking Dean’s cheek and down the unharmed side of his neck. “I did say I would do some real freaky stuff.”  
  
Dean groaned, “Christ, what I wouldn’t give for some magic healing powers right now.”  
  
“Will you settle for a kiss?”  
  
“Ugh, fine, come here,” Dean teased, cupping Castiel’s chin in his palm and tugging him into a lazy, soft kiss that lingered until Castiel’s lips were warm and wet, and Dean was breathing slowly and deeply, drifting towards the sleep he so obviously needed.  
  
Castiel pulled away, dropped a last kiss on Dean’s swiftly forming pout and whispered, “Sleep. I’ll watch over you.”  
  
“No one’s actually trying to kill me right now, Cas,” Dean slurred, eyes closed and mouth already going slack with exhaustion.  
  
“Even so, I insist.” Castiel brushed the hair from his forehead and tried to ignore the shiver of fear that crawled up his spine, tried to convince himself that Dean was only exaggerating and that no harm to Dean when he was pressed close and hot against Castiel’s side.  
  
“Stubborn,” Dean said.  
  
“When it comes to you, I think I have to be,” Castiel murmured fondly, touching his finger to the still kissed-pink of Dean’s lips and whispering, “Trust me, Dean.”  
  
Dean slept and Castiel kept vigil, listening to the beat of his heart and waiting until he could take Dean home.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the long, long delay between updates. Life has been busy and I got very distracted by watching all five seasons of Merlin in a month. 
> 
> Next chapter is the last chapter and hopefully it won't take me 5 weeks to get to it this time....

“Home sweet home,” Dean said, sliding his arm off of Sam’s shoulders and leaning heavily on Castiel as they struggled to fit their two bodies through the motel room door. Sam flicked on the lights, tossing keys on the counter of a battered kitchenette. Castiel blinked into the dimly lit room, absently reaching up to squeeze Dean’s clammy hand while he took in the...creative...color scheme and the two double beds draped with equally eye-searing duvets. Dean snorted and pushed his face into Castiel’s neck, mumbled,  “Otherwise known as the place we keep our shit and wash off the blood.”   
  
“Don’t worry, Cas,” Sam laughed, obviously having caught the flicker of dismay on Castiel’s face, “Sometimes we sleep here, too.”   
  
“How reassuring.” Castiel answered flatly, shuffling  further into the a room that smelled vaguely of old cigarettes and cheap whiskey. Dean’s breath was hot and labored against his neck, betraying the extent of his injury and exhaustion. He helped Dean to the edge of one of the beds, catching him when he swayed backwards and brushing limp hair from a face that was still pale, unable to keep his finger from tracing the edge of the bandage on Dean’s throat.   
  
“Dude, I’m fine.” Dean protested, swatting at Castiel’s hands and slumping to the mattress, rolling his eyes when Castiel immediately moved to slide a pillow beneath his head. “Jesus, you’re worse than Sammy.”   
  
“Hmm, suddenly I feel less inclined to go pick-up those burgers you wanted.” Sam said, opening the ancient refrigerator and grabbing two beers.   
  
“Bitch,” Dean muttered, rolling onto his side and pressing his face into the pillow.  
  
“Jerk.” Sam answered Dean’s ridiculous one-eyed glare with a wide, shit-eating grin as he settled on the opposite bed and tossed the second beer to Castiel.   
  
“Thank you, Sam,” Castiel said, setting the bottle on the little table that divided the two beds,  more interested in observing Dean and Sam performing a seemingly familiar routine than drinking cheap beer on an empty stomach. He glared when Dean tried to reach for it,  fingers attempting to sneak around Castiel’s hip. Castiel trapped his hand against the scratchy covers and shook his head to the sound of Sam’s laughter.   Dean pouted, lips curling downwards in a moue of childish disappointment that would have been endearing had Castiel not patiently sat through a lecture from a very nice doctor regarding the dangers of mixing alcohol and narcotics. He touched his thumb to Dean’s stuck-out lip, rubbing chapped skin and chastising, “As you said yourself, you’re on the awesome drugs, so there’s no need to be so greedy.”   
  
“Rude.” Dean rolled over with a groan, protesting Castiel’s apparent cruelty with the long line of his back.   
  
“Hmm,” Castiel said lightly, “Suddenly I feel less inclined to give you that spongebath you wanted.”   
  
Sam’s choking cough was almost louder than Dean’s, “Damn it, Cas,” and it was a struggle for Castiel to maintain his placid, innocent expression as he watched Sam wipe beer from his spluttering mouth and calmly ignored Dean’s elbow digging into his side.   
  
“And suddenly I’m feeling really hungry,” Sam said, lumbering off the bed and shrugging on his jacket.   
  
“Thank you for dinner, Sam.” Castiel smiled beatifically, patting Dean’s shoulder.   
  
“Uh, no problem, Cas,” Sam muttered, still looking anywhere but at them. “Just do me a favor and never say the words sponge bath in my presence again.” Sam pocketed the keys and called over his shoulder,  “Oh, and I know its probably too much to ask, but don’t let Dean do anything stupid while I’m gone.”   
  
Dean abandoned his studious inspection of the bedspread to give Sam the finger. “We’re stuck in the middle of fucking nowheresville and I’ve got a goddamned hole in my throat. I don’t need a babysitter.”  
  
“At least I’m a hot babysitter,” Castiel observed playfully, wondering if lack of sleep and too much fear-induced adrenaline had permanently disabled his verbal filter.  “Don’t worry, Sam, I’m happy to make sure Dean stays in bed.”  
  
“Shut-up, Cas. You aren’t helping.” Dean said, squirming when Castiel decided he’d earned the privilege of touching the weak flush of color that spread over freckles.    
  
“No one’s babysitting.” Sam just opened the door, evening light spilling over a resigned smile as he shook his head and said, “I just know you, Dean. And I know how you feel about unfinished business.”   
  
The door slammed shut, leaving Castiel alone with Dean and the motel room’s dripping faucet. He turned towards Dean, unable to keep from hovering just a little when Dean was still pale, skin clammy with exhaustion.   
  
“Unfinished business?”   
  
Dean rolled onto his back, shoving his hands beneath his head and shrugging with forced casualness, “The piece of shit that did this to me is still out there, Cas. Right now it could be taking a chunk of some other poor bastard while I’m laid up playing house with you and Sam.”   
  
“I don’t think we can play house in a motel room, Dean,” Castiel murmured, trying to keep his tone light so Dean wouldn’t turn away, wouldn’t hear the worry he disliked so much in Castiel’s voice when Castiel imagined just what lengths Dean would go to to finish a job left undone.  
  
“What? Is the uh.....” Dean muttered, flinging a hand out to grasp the matchbook on the bedside table, squinting at the wording, “The, ah, Pinecone Lodge not good enough for you, Cas? Is Mr. B&B too good to live like the other half?”   
  
“Its fine,” Castiel soothed, plucking the matchbook from Dean’s fingers and rubbing his thumb over Dean’s calloused palm, “But it would be easier to play house in an actual house. Like mine.” Dean’s eyebrows crept up his forehead, eyes wide with wariness. Castiel smiled gently, “I’m merely suggesting  you consider returning to Anna’s Haven until you’re well again.”   
  
“And why the hell would I want to do that?” Dean yawned, tugging Castiel to the mattress and sliding his foot over Castiel’s ankle.   
  
Castiel settled at Dean’s side, stared at the water-stained ceiling and circled his fingers around Dean’s wrist, counting heartbeats as he listed the reasons why he wanted to Dean where he could find him, safe and close and touchable.   
  
“Homemade pancakes and bacon for breakfast every morning. Something sweet for dessert every night.”   
  
“I’m listening,” Dean laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners with tired amusement.   
  
“Perhaps a bath to get rid of all the aches and pains,” Castiel said, turning on his side and shifting closer to share his warmth, “I’d be happy to assist, of course.”   
  
“You do that for all your guests?”  
  
“Being a good host is important,” Castiel assented, dipping his head to kiss the edge of Dean’s barely-there smile, “But I think you qualify for the Dean Fogerty special.”   
  
“Fogerty. Right.” Dean mumbled under his breath, sounding confused just before he slipped his tongue between Castiel’s lips and Castiel forgot to ask why.   
  
The kiss lingered, soft and lazy for all that Dean tried to pull Castiel over his lap because even with his eyes closed and Dean’s frustrated groans in his mouth, Castiel couldn’t forget the the feeling of bandages.   
  
“C’mon, Cas,” Dean cajoled, hands drifting down to squeeze his ass and tug him near, “You did promise Sammy you’d keep me in bed.”   
  
“Somehow I don’t think this is what he had in mind,” Castiel murmured, running his fingers through Dean’s hair and kissing his stubble-rough cheek.   
  
“I sure as hell hope not, because that’s just wrong,” Dean frowned and shuddered before leering and reaching for Castiel’s belt. “But its definitely what I’ve got in mind.”   
  
Castiel laughed and forced himself to put inches between Dean’s kiss-red lips and his own lack of self-control, “It is a nice thought, isn’t it? And if you come to Anna’s Haven, I’ll see that its one we revisit frequently.”   
  
“Tempting,” Dean said roughly, “But why wait?”   
  
“Because you’re shivering and pale from recent trauma, for one,” Castiel answered primly, sitting up and pressing a hand to Dean’s chest to keep him down, “And Sam will be returning any moment, for another.”   
  
“Ugh, fine.” Dean made a face, willfulness caving beneath the force of a deep, sighing yawn. “Fuck if I know why I’m so tired, considering all I’ve done for two days is sleep.”   
  
“Your body is trying to tell you something, Dean,” Castiel said, standing from the bed and moving quietly towards the bathroom.   
  
“I already told you what my body was telling me, you’re the one who didn’t want to listen.”   
  
Castiel laughed over the sound of the water rushing from the tap, startled by the reflection of his smile as he wrung out a washcloth and shook his head.   
  
“And you call me stubborn,” Castiel murmured, the old mattress dipping under his weight as he settled at Dean’s shoulder, gently dragging the washcloth across his forehead and down the line of his jaw to rest on the edge of the bandage. Dean hummed, eyes closing when Castiel continued to wipe away sweat and the smell of hospital. He pulled the chain that always hung from Dean’s neck into his palm, the metal of the strange pendant cool between his fingers. Dean shivered a little, skin breaking into goosebumps as Castiel moved the washcloth once more to his cheek. “Are you alright?”  
  
“Yeah, man, just a little cold. But then I’ve been told spilling a gallon of blood will do that to a guy.” Dean leaned into Castiel’s soft, roaming, touch, his lips brushing the tip of Castiel’s thumb and causing ripples of wonder and worry to upset the calm he’d tried to hold to since Dean had shoved out of the wheelchair and stumbled to his beloved car.  Castiel abandoned the washcloth, shifted silently down the bed to remove Dean’s boots and drag the hideous coverlet up to Dean’s chin.  Dean opened his eyes just enough to frown and mutter, “I don’t even want think about how long its been since this damned thing has been washed.”   
  
Castiel laughed, “Some mysteries are best left unanswered.”   
  
Dean smirked and yawned, “Bet you’re missing the comforts of known comforters.”   
  
“I can’t always vouch for what guests do in my rooms. Anna’s Haven is rather romantic, after all.” Castiel said, biting his lip not to laugh at the way Dean’s expression wavered somewhere between lewd curiosity and apprehension. He toed off his own shoes, laid down on top of the sheets and carefully draped his arm across Dean’s stomach to feel the soft rise and fall of his breathing. “But yes, I’d rather have you in my bed.”   
  
“As I recall, being there wasn’t half bad,” Dean drawled, turning his head just enough so Castiel could the tip of his smile and the faint edge of green beneath dark lashes.   
  
“You’re so lovely, Dean,” Castiel whispered, unable to help himself even though he knew Dean would go stiff and run from what Castiel would say if given even half a chance, too tired and wrung out with anxiety and happiness to be entirely wary of Dean’s hidden landmines. He curled his fingers on Dean’s hip to hold him in place, exhaled gently over the bandage that kept the hurt from Castiel’s eyes. “Come home with me. If only for a few days.”   
  
“I don’t know, Cas.” Dean scrubbed at his face with a tired hand but didn’t stir from under Castiel’s arm. “Look, its not that I don’t want to....”   
  
“Sam is also welcome, of course,” Castiel interrupted, trying to cut Dean’s excuses off before they could rob the afternoon of stillness and possibility. He crawled forward to cup Dean’s chin in his hand, stroking his jaw with his thumb in the hopes of soothing the way Dean instinctively clenched his teeth around _no_. “I know what you would say. You have a job. A job left unfinished and that you worry for the safety of others.  And I would not keep you from your work because I believe what you do is important, even if you cannot tell me all it is you do.” Dean stared at him, eyes now wide open and unblinking. Castiel gazed steadily in return, murmured, “But I also believe that _you_ are important. Surely there are others who can share the responsibility.”   
  
“Cas.” Dean started, licking his lips and sighing. “What Sam and I do....its hard to explain. You’re just going to have to trust me when I say there isn’t anyone else. And sometimes it really sucks because, hell, I’d definitely rather have you bringing me breakfast in bed than be chasing down some fucking scumbag that wants to see me dead.”   
  
And though Castiel knew there were a thousand unanswered questions between each of Dean’s tiny confessions, he trusted in the honesty of Dean’s unwavering gaze and wished he could deny the truth he heard in such brittle words.  Castiel closed his eyes and touched his forehead to Dean’s, willing away sadness and resignation. “Maybe I expect you to bring me breakfast in bed. I wouldn’t want you to get spoiled.”   
  
“Fair enough,” Dean said, curling his hand around Castiel’s neck and holding him so close Castiel could feel the thready hum of the pulse that jumped beneath Dean’s jaw and hear the click of a nervous swallow. “Maybe when this shit’s finished, I’ll come around and do just that.”   
  
“And help me fold all the towels, too?” Castiel smiled, careful not to betray too much happiness lest Dean go once more running into the night.   
  
“Don’t push your luck, asshole,” Dean teased, pinching Castiel’s side and grumbling, “Also, what the hell happened to the bacon and bathtime special?”   
  
Castiel shrugged, “It was a limited time offer.” He poked Dean’s chest and threatened, “But if you’ll do me the favor of keeping yourself safe and whole, I’ll consider renewing the previously negotiated terms.”   
  
“Awesome.” Dean smiled in that soft, secret way Castiel last saw in the front seat of a Chevy Impala in the seconds before Dean kissed him for the first time.   
  
Castiel breathed in Dean’s long, low sigh and moved to kiss him, wetting his lips and closing his eyes, still counting the excited beats of Dean’s heart beneath his thumb, happy that even if Dean would not go with him now, he would come to him again someday. He made a silent vow to always be careful with the precious pieces of the heart Dean so slowly gave away and murmured, “Dean.”   
  
And then the stillness of the afternoon, the quiet promise of it all was broken by the sudden slam of a heavy door and another voice shouting, “Dean!”  
  
Castiel’s back hit the mattress, breath rushing from his lungs as Dean scrambled to sit up and Sam hurried over, face etched with lines of worry and long limbs so tense there was no way Castiel could come to any other conclusion than something was desperately wrong.   
  
“Jesus Christ, Sam, give me a fucking heart attack!” Dean complained before he rubbed his eyes open enough to recognize that all was very much not well, going rigid and snapping to attention. “What the hell’s going on?”   
  
“We gotta get out of here, Dean,” Sam said hurriedly, moving about the dim motel room and tossing belongings into a battered duffle bag. “I just talked to Bobby....”  
  
“And?” Dean barked as Sam’s explanation trailed off, his gaze lingering warily on Castiel.   
  
Sam scrubbed his hand over his mouth, shaking his head, “And its bad, Dean.”  
  
“What kinda bad are we talking here?” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, shrugging away from Castiel’s questioning touch. “Someone ate the last piece of pie bad or Lilith bad?”   
  
Sam exhaled noisily, slamming his laptop shut and zipping up their bags. “Closer to sixty seals than no more dessert. Let’s just leave it at that. We need to get to Bobby’s. He's got info that can't wait. And I’m sorry, Cas, but you need to go home.”   
  
Castiel blinked as Sam smiled at him with grim apology, too confused to do more than murmur, “Why? What’s happened? Sixty-six seals, I don’t understand.”   
  
Dean turned to him, face pale but resolute, “Cas. I need you to do something for me, okay?” Castiel nodded slowly while Dean grasped his shoulder, fingers digging in so tight it was almost painful. “I need you to get in your car and drive. I need you to walk out that door and promise me you’re going to go home.”  
  
“Dean, if you and Sam are in trouble, let me help,” Castiel murmured, searching Dean’s expression for something--anything--that would ease the fear that now crawled beneath his skin.   
  
“Cas,” Dean said gently, standing up on legs that shouldn’t yet have to stand, have to run and holding out a hand to pull Castiel from the dingy motel bed. “The biggest thing you can do to help me and Sammy right now is to get as far away from us as possible.”   
  
“And take this,” Sam interjected, shoving a strange little bag made of cloth into Castiel’s palm. “I know it seems weird, but keep this with you, alright?”   
  
“Alright?” Dean echoed, staring at him with such evident, naked concern that Castiel felt he had no choice but curl his fingers around the bag and say,  
  
“Alright, Dean. I don’t understand, but alright.”   
  
Dean bit his lip and cast his eyes at the ceiling, shaking his head but saying nothing while Castiel stood at a loss in the middle of a hotel room.   
  
Sam walked over and clasped his shoulder, “I’m sorry, Cas. Dean, we need to go. Bobby’s waiting.”   
  
“Just give us a minute, will you?” Dean muttered.   
  
“A minute, Dean,” Sam said shortly, nodding to Castiel and striding out of the room, leaving them once more alone in an uneasy, awful silence that was so different from the sweetness of the time before.   
  
Castiel wondered what he had stumbled into all those months ago when he’d opened his door to two uncommonly good looking FBI agents, wondered how he had gone from a late summer morning on his front porch to a dismal motel room on a cold winter afternoon, and wondered why he didn’t want to walk away and do what Dean demanded and never think of any of this again.   
  
He looked at Dean, watched Dean watching him with such wariness and resignation, like he had finally found the moment when the other shoe was going to fall. Castiel wanted to shake him for doubting, wanted to run his fingers over skin that was still pale with hurt, wanted to kiss the livid bruise that crept from beneath the edge of a bandage, and wanted to demand to be let inside Dean’s secret little world if he was once again to be left standing alone without knowing if Dean was ever coming back.    
  
Dean blinked, licked his lips, and looked so lost that Castiel’s frustration guttered out, leaving him with only that which was constant when it came to the whirlwind of confusion and missed opportunity that was his relationship with Dean.  
  
Castiel straightened his shoulders, sliding the little bag into his back pocket and closing the distance between them to kiss Dean’s worried, doubting mouth with none of the gentleness he’d shown all day, kissing him with resolute intent.   
  
Dean’s lips were wet with his kiss when Castiel pulled away, his eyes bright and wide as Castiel said plainly, “I’ll trust you, Dean. I’ll trust you and I’ll do as you ask and go home.” He held up a finger to stop Dean from speaking, “But I want something from you in return.”  
  
“Another car ride? More postcards?” Dean joked so flippantly Castiel’s anger flared,   
  
“No, Dean. I want you to remember what you said you were going to do when this shit was over. I want you to know I’m holding to you that.”   
  
Dean sighed, “Damn it, Cas. I don’t know how long that’s gonna be. I don’t even know why you’d want me to come around when this kind of crap keeps happening.”   
  
“Dean, look at me,” Castiel said, tamping down his frustration and taking Dean’s hand into his own, running his thumb over the cool metal of his ring, “I’ve told you why. And I’ll tell you again--because I care for you and I want to know you.  The good and the bad and even whatever it is that has you so scared right now. I’m hoping that maybe one day you’ll tell me. So I’ll go home, I’ll wait, and I’ll leave the porch light on for you because I trust you.” Castiel exhaled and closed his eyes, brushed his lips over Dean’s cheek and whispered, “So when you’re done doing what it is you need to do, maybe you could spare a little time and think about trusting me.”   
  
Castiel dropped Dean’s hand, kissed the corners of his clenched shut eyes, leaving Dean standing stock-still in an empty motel room as he took the first step towards home.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of 2 of the final chapter. 
> 
> Winter has arrived, will Dean follow?

In the stillness of winter that came with the  snow and ice, Castiel found solace in Dean’s enduring silence. After the rush of hope, fear, lust, and disappointment had faded during the long, dark hours of a drive from rural Pennsylvania to the comfort of familiar Vermont forests, Castiel decided he had said all that he could and that there was nothing more to do but hope. It grated his nerves to do play the game of ‘wait and see’ when he had the all powerful temptations of words, phone calls, bribery at his fingertips, and Dean’s number burned into his memory.  

Despite all the desire to reach out, to hear the echo of Dean’s voice on the line or drive him to distraction with message after message of temptation, Castiel buried his frustrations and his anxious wishes, letting his worry and his want become as patient and deep as winter’s chill.  He kept the memory of Dean’s private smile and half-promises a secret, brushing off Balthazar’s prodding concern, and feigning ignorance when his well-intentioned but far too-knowing friend asked if Cassie had been stupid enough to get his heart broken.  He was tempted to tell Balthazar that he hadn’t yet been offered the chance to risk its breakage, because every time he thought perhaps Dean might want to take a chance with his heart, Dean instead took every chance he was given to walk away. He wondered what Balthazar would have said if he knew Castiel had cancelled a weekend’s worth of reservations to go running after a man who kissed with an honesty he was apparently incapable of putting into words.

Castiel often thought of that afternoon in the dingy motel, questioned whether or not he should have pushed harder and imagined what it would have been like to pin Dean to the little bed and demanded to know what it was he thought made him so dangerous to love. He washed dishes, folded towels, shoveled snow, cooked a hundred breakfasts, kept that strange little bag that smelled even stranger in a kitchen drawer  and hoped that it had been enough to give Dean his trust and ask for a little in return. 

By the time Christmas had come and gone, taking the distraction of friends and visitors with it, the trees in Castiel’s yard bowed beneath the weight of snow, icicles spiraling down from the roof’s edge, the forests and hills blanketed in crisp, shining white. The days were so short that night came too soon, and in the long quiet hours of evening it was hard to deny how much he missed Dean, how often he thought of Dean and Sam and wondered if he would ever see them again. He gave silent prayers to whomever was left to listen that they were well and wished more than once that he could talk to Anna, because she would have known how to stop the endless loop of questions, recriminations, and hopes that cluttered his thoughts and kept him from the tranquility he pretended to possess. 

The last, cold days of December were lonely, the Inn empty and his inbox quiet.   With no one left to witness his weakness, with no reason not to carry his laptop and cup of coffee to the couch and fire that were meant for guests, Castiel thought it might be alright to sin just a little, to fall a little further, and slowly typed Dean Fogerty and Sam Clifford into the search-bar.  He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, since his previous ventures in internet stalking had been guided by Dean’s postcards and now he had no signposts, only two names that he thought might yield more eyebrow raising news articles of crimes that seemed too bizarre to be true. He had hoped, perhaps, to find some hint that Dean was still alive and breathing, possibly expected to find links to twenty Facebooks that belonged to the wrong ‘Sam Clifford’.  

What he did not anticipate was finding absolutely nothing of interest or relevance until he deleted the first names and tried again, at which point Wikipedia helpfully informed him that Fogerty and Clifford were two of the three founding members of Creedence Clearwater Revival.  Castiel sipped his coffee and wished he knew what to make of information that could be nothing more than coincidence because surely many people in the world had Fogerty or Clifford for a last name. But the longer he stared at the computer and the harder he tried to find evidence of Dean Fogerty’s existence in the vastness of the internet, the more difficult it was for Castiel to deny the strange sense that this one random piece of Google trivia was one of the keys to understanding why Dean kept so much a secret, why what little he shared always seemed more shrouded in mystery than truth.

He was reading the Creedence Clearwater Revival page on Wikipedia, inexplicably caught up in the drama that had led to the band’s demise in the 1970’s when the sharp, sudden knocking at the front door startled him into tumbling forward from the couch. The knocking persisted and Castiel’s coffee splattered over the hardwood floors, staining his white socks while he scrambled to sop up the mess with the corner of a blanket before it could ruin his antique rug. As he desperately tried to stem the tide of coffee, Castiel shouted, “Coming, coming, sorry!” at the increasingly insistent knocking and hoped that it wasn’t another tourist needing help with their seasonally inappropriate car or Mr. Ulrich coming to say that the sheep had gotten loose and he was going to need an extra pair of hands wrangling them out of the snow-banked ditches.

He spared a thought for the state of his appearance--the two-day beard he always let grow when the Inn was empty and his now coffee-soaked socks--decided that whoever it was that needed a lift or the use of his phone or maybe even a bed for the night could just make do with Castiel as he was. They were, after all, intruding on his guilty need to pursue Dean Fogerty even unto the depths of internet hell.

 

Castiel shook his head, closed the laptop and counted this interruption as sign from above that he needed to let this madness go already, and opened the door. The polite apology that was on the tip of his tongue disappeared, gone along with every rational thing Castiel might have once thought to say, because there, shivering and smiling that questioning half-smile, was Dean. 

“Hey, Cas.”

“Dean. I was just Googling you.” Castiel breathed, blinking stupidly into the bright porch light and waiting for his mind to catch up with a mouth that was apparently running without thought because Dean was looking at him like he thought Castiel was a little crazy and a little  endearing.

Because Dean had come back.

“What? Why?” Dean asked, rubbing his hands up and down his arms, breath spilling out frost-white into the night air while he craned his neck to peer over Castiel’s shoulder as though the answers to his questions were hiding somewhere in his living room.

“I wanted to know where you were, see if you were alright. But there wasn’t anything I could find, only information about this band Creedence Clearwater Revival, which is interesting, but not particularly helpful unless you are interested in the nuances of late 1960’s rock,” Castiel babbled, mouth still outpacing his mind.   “Did you know that you and Sam have the same last names as the members of that band?”

Dean flushed, cleared his throat and looked away. “Uh, yeah, about that...”

Whatever it was Dean wanted to say slipped between Castiel’s lips because Castiel’s mind had finally come to the conclusion that he had better things to be doing with his with his tongue than asking inane questions about classic rock. Dean was there, alive and whole, tasting of salt and the bitterness of beer, kissing Castiel with a groan and stumbling over the threshold to let Castiel push him against the closed door and sigh into his mouth.  Dean’s hands flexed on his waist, fingers twisted up in Castiel’s faded college t-shirt. Castiel cupped the back of his head to keep it from  knocking against the door as Castiel rubbed his stubbled cheek down Dean’s jaw and over the scar on his throat, lips tracing the edge of the still-pink skin that had been kept from him all those weeks ago.

“Wait,” Dean groaned, sliding his fingers beneath Castiel’s shirt. Castiel ignored the muffled request because waiting was all he had done for months and he’d been wanting this for even longer. Dean smoothed his palms down Castiel’s back and muttered, “Damn it, Cas. I’m trying to do the right thing here.”  

Castiel brushed the corner of Dean’s mouth,  breathed over his kiss-wet lips and sighed, “This isn’t the right thing? I understand many people say hello this way.”

“Uh, yeah, trust me when I say that’s really not the problem,” Dean said ruefully, eyes still pinned on Castiel’s mouth even as he pushed away from the door, slipping from the bracket of Castiel’s arms to drift towards the couch. “Its just if I don’t do this now, I’m going to think of the thousand reasons I shouldn’t do this at all.”

Castiel watched Dean sag with exhaustion as he sat down, elbows on his knees and gaze turned towards the fire. He licked the last of their kiss from his lips and tried to quell the flutter of anxiety in his stomach, feeling drunk on the surprise of Dean and the sudden, sharp sense that everything was about to change.

“Do what, Dean?”

“Tell you the truth.”

“I see,” Castiel murmured, uncertain of what to do with hands that had just been curled around Dean’s neck, no longer sure of how to move forward when Dean had finally offered him what he’d thought he needed to hear.

“Not yet, you don’t,” Dean said so tiredly that it stirred Castiel from his momentary stupor, because no matter what truths Dean was about to tell, Castiel couldn’t envision a reality in which he wouldn’t want to take away the hunched tension in Dean’s shoulders. “And when I tell you, you’re gonna wish you didn’t.”

Castiel walked to Dean, coffee damp socks leaving little stains on the floor and marking the  path from the door to the space between Dean’s legs, where he kneeled and wrapped his fingers around Dean’s wrists. Dean stiffened, peered at him through lowered lashes and exhaled. Castiel smiled as gently as he could when his palms were sweaty and his stomach was knotted with hope and worry.

“You can tell me anything.”

“Damn it, Cas. Don’t say that.” Dean shook his head, looked away to stare at the forgotten coffee cup on the floor. “Don’t promise shit like that. You have no idea.”

Castiel leaned forward, crowded into Dean’s space so that there was nowhere for Dean to escape when he said, “I have a thousand ideas about you, Dean, and I want to have a thousand more.”

Dean’s eyes widened before he buried in his face in his hands and groaned, “Jesus Christ, you aren’t making this easy on me.”

“What do you mean?” Cas asked, confused and desperate to assuage Dean’s pinched expression of worry. He stroked his thumbs over a too-quick pulse and wished Dean would look at him. Wished Dean would kiss him until they were both happy again.

Dean peeked at him through the spread of his fingers. “Saying sappy shit like that makes me want to go back to the kissing so I can make you shut-the hell up.”

Castiel laughed, wondering if Dean had come to confess to being a mind-reader. He tilted his head in invitation and wet his lips, “I’m fine with going back to the kissing.”

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” Dean said, rolling his eyes before he leveling a glare at Castiel and grumbling, “And don’t you dare tell Sam I said it...but we’ve gotta talk.”

“One more,” Castiel offered, wanting to chase away Dean’s wariness and his own worry if only for a little while longer, “One more and then I’ll pour us both a drink and you can tell me anything, everything.”

“A little courage before confession, huh, Cas? I like it.” Dean murmured, leaning in close enough that Castiel could feel warm breath against his lips and the slow drag of two fingers down his stubbled jaw. “I’m also liking this peach fuzz.”

“Thank you.”

Castiel tipped his chin up, catching Dean’s bottom lip and tracing the shape of his mouth with a soft, unhurried kiss, a gesture so opposite of the excited dread that was thick and heavy beneath his skin. He delayed the inevitable until Dean was spilling quiet, rough noises over his tongue and his knees ached from crouching so long on the floor, the pain a reminder that he needed to temporarily forgo the warm pleasure of the needy, asking way Dean kissed until he’d lived up to his promise, honored every entreaty he’d made to be let into Dean’s mysterious world and cautious heart, and finally heard what Dean had come to say.  

“Ready?” Castiel asked watching the way Dean licked his lips and reached for him before remembering himself and falling back against the couch with a huff.

“I’ve been ready. You’re the one who wanted to whisper sweet nothings and make-out like teenagers.”

“Clearly you bring out the best in me, Dean.” Castiel laughed, pretending he didn’t notice the nervousness in Dean’s voice, pretending his own heart wasn’t stuck in his throat as he stood up on creaking knees and wandered towards the liquor cabinet to pour them each a healthy dose of the Inn’s best whiskey.

“I’m pretty sure no one’s ever accused me of that before.”

Castiel slipped Dean his drink, smiling faintly as he teased, “Dean Fogerty, confessing to be less than awesome? Heaven help me.”

“Dean Winchester.”

Whiskey splashed over his fingers as Castiel dropped into his seat with a startled, “Pardon?”

“My name’s not Fogerty. Its Dean Winchester,” Dean wiped his mouth, palming his already empty glass and staring at the little patch of carpet beneath Castiel’s socked feet. “Fogerty’s just an alias. One of many.” Dean smirked faintly,  “You know how this sort of thing works in the movies-- the awesome hero with the secret identity.”

“Dean Winchester.” Castiel absently licked the whiskey from his thumb, rolling Winchester on his tongue and finding that he liked it more than Fogerty. He supposed he couldn’t be too surprised that a man who did what Dean did for a living was knee deep in aliases. He tried for an easy smile and hoped Dean would give up staring at the floor long enough to see it. “That explains why my Google searching was so futile.”

“Thank god for that,” Dean mumbled, gaze flicking up to Castiel before he pulled his lip between his teeth and said, “And Sammy’s no Clifford.”

“That would follow,” Castiel said, reaching for the bottle to give Dean another measure of courage. “So, who is he?”

“The poor kid also had the great misfortune of being born a Winchester. Sam’s my little brother.” Dean looked at him then, expression so weary and guilt-ridden Castiel could feel the ache of it over the surprise of Dean’s revelation. Castiel knew all too well the joy and sorrow of siblings, knew how it was to love someone so dearly, and wondered how Dean and Sam could bear the idea of the other always in so much danger. Something must have shown in his face because Dean shook his head, took another shot of whiskey and aimed for levity so false it rang hollow in Castiel’s ears. “Heh. Maybe I should say younger brother, since Sammy’s too overgrown to be anyone’s little anything.”

“Your brother....” Castiel said softly, so much of what he knew of Dean and Sam shifting into clarity through this new lens of brothers. He smiled faintly at Dean, tipped his glass and murmured, “That explains so much.”

“It probably does, doesn’t it?” Dean snorted. He dropped his head against the back of the couch and rubbed a hand over his eyes.  “You don’t seem too surprised, though, about Sammy and me.”

“Everything about you is a surprise, Dean Winchester.” Castiel shook his head, running his finger over the rim of his glass, “But you and Sam have always seemed incredibly close, invested in one another in a way that goes beyond the professional. You knew each other so well and treated each other with that sort of casual fondness that doesn't come easily in life.  I had wondered what it was that tied you together. Knowing what I know now, if I had to guess, I would say that Sam is your Anna.”

“Yeah, I guess that sounds about right. There's no one more important to me in this world or the next than that kid. Like you and your sister, right?” Dean said. Castiel nodded and Dean's considering smile turned sly, one hand waving towards the living room windows, “Sammy and me are in this shit together, even if we’re never gonna be picking out drapes for our charming BnB.”

“No, I suppose not.” Castiel laughed, flooded with the bittersweet warmth of remembering Anna before he sobered beneath the wariness of Dean’s watchful gaze. He settled on the arm of the couch and sighed as he asked, “But then again, I also suppose the hospitality industry is not exactly the Winchester's family business, is it?”   

“Not exactly, Cas. Not exactly,” Dean answered wryly, peering at him through half-lidded eyes. The truth of that not exactly lingered heavy and unspoken, the weight of it in each steady rise and fall of Dean’s chest as he pretended nonchalance and in the anxious tapping of Castiel’s fingers against glass.  

The clock ticked, Dean breathed, and Castiel waited. 

“To hell with it.” Dean sighed, sounding older than anyone had a right. Castiel reached for him and Dean leaned forward, stared at him with eyes wide open and said, “Last chance to do the smart thing, Cas. Last chance to walk away.” 

Castiel shook his head, ignored the pounding of his heart, splayed his hand on Dean’s shoulder and smiled thinly, “No, Dean. I’m not going anywhere.”   


End file.
